


The Ever Fixed Mark

by jachap



Series: What the Minutes Say [2]
Category: Captain America The First Avenger, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brainwashing, F/M, Lost Love, M/M, Mutant!Darcy, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-04-08 11:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19106152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jachap/pseuds/jachap
Summary: Darcy moves on, figures out something new about herself, runs into a couple of mutants, and kills herself. Sort of.One day 70 years later, she turns on the tv to see a man in red, white, and blue with familiar wide shoulders fighting aliens in New York. She drops her coffee in shock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No beta
> 
> So this is the start of the sequel—my plan is for Darcy to jump forward in time and to show the reader her life in snippets, like a rock skipping across water til we come to just after Steve is discovered and thawed out.
> 
> It’ll be a while til I post more—just wanted to give you guys a taste.

What the Minutes Say

 

We are but minutes—little things!

Each one furnished with sixty wings,

With which we fly on our unseen track,

And not a minute ever comes back.

 

We are but minutes; use us well,

For how we are used we must one day tell.

Who uses minutes, has hours to use;

Who loses minutes, whole years must lose.

 

—Anonymous

 

Paris, France

March 20, 1967

 

Darcy folds her newspaper and lays it on top of the two others she’s read in the last hour, leans back in her bistro chair, closes her eyes, and tips her face to the early spring sun. She’s seated on the sidewalk outside of Cafe de Flora at a tiny rickety table with two chairs, as has been her habit when weather allows since she arrived in Paris two weeks ago.

 

She’s become addicted to her afternoon grande creme (a large cup of white coffee) and newspaper. She’s often approached by one of the young men who gather in cafes around the city to talk about art and politics and for the most part she welcomes their company. She enjoys perfecting her French through conversation and immersion in the culture—language is ever evolving and it’s a useful way to grasp slang.

 

There’s one in particular she’s taken back to her hotel a few times—he’s young and lovely, an artist with dark curly hair and soulful blue eyes.

 

He’d been a welcome distraction for her on Bucky’s birthday on the 10th.

 

Over the years, she’s developed her own rituals around significant dates. It usually involves a bottle of whiskey and sinking into her memories for a while, followed by reconnecting to the present with human contact.

 

She picks her lovers carefully.

 

It had been five years after the war before the pain of losing Bucky and Steve had healed over enough that she could remember them and feel a sort of wistful resignation rather than a soul deep ache.

 

Funny how their loss started as an open wound then finally became more like a bruise—a pain which she could ignore but from which she was never entirely free.

 

Gradually, her body had awakened, and while she didn’t want romance and commitment, she did want companionship, harmless flirtation—maybe sex.

 

_And dammit, it was okay for her to want that again._

 

She didn’t entirely believe it, but Will and Peggy had told her over and over again that she needed to start _living._ What was the point of fighting a war and surviving it, otherwise?

 

They didn’t think she heard their whispered conversations about her, Peggy expressing concern that all she did was work and Will assuring her that she was healing in her own way.

 

Given where she lived and worked, there were plenty of options for flirtation. People in Los Angeles and in the entertainment business in particular, were far less prudish than anyplace she’d ever been.

 

She’d spent years at parties fending off men, many of them quite attractive—most people in Howard’s business/social circle thought nothing of forwarding their interests through affairs.

 

Eventually, she’d chosen a handsome young actor looking for his big break in Hollywood. He was intense, ambitious, and creative—fine boned and not terribly tall, much younger than her yet not naive at all.

 

She’d known the score, Jimmy was looking to get famous and she was looking for companionship, touch— _something._

 

_Just to feel something._

 

Even so, the first time they’d had sex she’d cried in the shower afterwards, feeling like she’d lost Steve and Bucky all over again.

 

Eventually, she came to the realization that sex could be separate from love. It could be about straight forward lust—it could be about satisfying a bodily need. She didn’t need to be in a committed relationship to have physical closeness with someone.

 

Her battered heart wasn’t ready to let anyone in anyway.

 

Despite the transactional nature of their relationship, she actually liked Jimmy, undeterred by his tendency to brood, drink too much, and drive too fast. He was passionate and charismatic and told her she was beautiful and smart.

 

They settled into a friendship that included occasional sex.

 

If you’d asked her before the war— _before she’d lost everything—_ if she’d ever be so casual about sex she wouldn’t have believed it. But it made her feel alive—and nobody’s heart was at risk.

 

He escorted her to various social events and she introduced him to a few contacts in the business. Eventually, his career had taken off and they’d seen less and less of each other, both of them busy with work and lacking motivation to keep things going.

 

She’d been sad when his fast driving ways ended his life in 1955, but not surprised. It had been readily apparent James Dean was never going to grow old.

 

She wasn’t either, actually. At least outwardly.

 

It had been ten years after the war and at the age of 37 before she realized she wasn’t aging like everyone else she knew.

 

She’d gone to visit Peggy one weekend in Washington D.C. six months after the birth of her daughter Audrey in June of 1955.

 

At 36, her friend had looked tired but happy, satisfied in her work and with her family. It was a mystery to Darcy, who still hadn’t felt the desire to form any type of committed relationship herself—her work usually took priority and she was unwilling to compromise about how and where she spent her time.

 

She and Howard were the dysfunctional duo, the workaholic inventor unable to settle for one woman in the midst of such variety and herself unable to form deep intimacy and trust given her personal losses and the secrets about herself she didn’t dare reveal.

 

Howard had once jokingly declared they might as well marry each other if they couldn’t find anyone by the time they reached 40.

 

There had been a long moment where Darcy tried to shift her perception of him enough to consider it before they’d both shuddered with distaste and vowed to never speak of it again.

 

Peggy was Director of the the ridiculously named Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law-Enforcement Division otherwise known as S.H.I.E.L.D. —the successor to the SSR that Howard had proposed to protect the interests of the United States and its allies after the war.

 

Her friend no longer engaged in field work since marrying Daniel Sousa late in 1950 and soon after becoming pregnant with her son Michael who was born in February of 1952.

 

She’d settled on one end of the sofa as Peggy patiently fed her daughter Audrey a bottle and they’d caught up with each other while her husband took Michael out for a couple hours.

 

“You look good Peggy—motherhood agrees with you,“ Darcy said, observing the glow of happiness that lit her friend’s face.

 

Peggy smiled wryly, running her hand gently over her daughters wispy dark hair. “There doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day, I’m tired all the time and seem to have lost my waistline—but it’s worth it,” she said, lifting her gaze to Darcy, her dark eyes assessing as always, “ _You_ haven’t changed a bit.”

 

Darcy shifted self-consciously, lifting a hand to pat at her hair, “Well—um, sure I have. I got my hair cut, that’s different.”

 

Peggy eyed Darcy’s hair, which she currently wore in a short cap of soft curls.

 

“Yes, it’s shorter. But look at me Darcy—I’ve started to get gray hair.”

 

True, Peggy had glints of silver shining in her dark hair.

 

“And, my figure has changed.”

 

Darcy interrupted, “But you’ve just had a baby!”

 

“Yes—yes. I know, but you look _exactly_ the same as when we first met.”

 

“You think so?” Darcy asked and Peggy nodded slowly, frowning slightly as her sharp eyes evaluated her.

 

She paused to consider Peggy’s observation.

 

Darcy didn’t spend a lot of time looking at herself.

 

One of the reasons she’d cut her hair short is she didn’t like to fuss with it and she wanted to look professional and neat. She was simply too busy running interference for Howard to primp excessively.

 

Other people she knew complained about getting older—Howard complained about his inability to go on 48 hour work benders anymore, Tony moaned about his slow recovery after the last New Years party. Will had asked her very seriously a couple of weeks before if the silver hairs showing up at his temples made him look distinguished or just old.

 

All of the changes were minor and so incremental that she’d hardly noticed. It took Peggy, whom she did not see often since she’d moved to Washington, to make her really think about it.

 

Darcy’s hair remained dark and shining, her skin smooth and wrinkle free. Her waistline was trim, though with her metabolism she quickly grew gaunt if she got distracted by work and skipped some meals.

 

She _did_ look the same as ever.

 

“Maybe it has something to do with my abilities,” she said quietly.

 

Peggy shifted Audrey to her shoulder to gently pat her tiny back and replied, “Yes—I know you aren’t serum enhanced like Steve was, but Dr. Erskine hypothesized that the healing factor he possessed would slow aging. If you think about it, aging is merely the breakdown of the body at the cellular level.”

 

_True._

 

How had she never considered this possibility? How could she possibly keep her mutation a secret while everyone around her grew older and she remained the same?

 

She needed a plan.

 

()()()()()

 

Eventually, she’d killed herself.

 

Well—not exactly.

 

She’d hung on for seven more years, implementing gradual changes that Peggy had suggested to age her appearance.

 

She slowly altered her dresses to give the appearance of a thicker waist, put away her pretty heels in favor of more conservative styles, adopted a bouffant hairstyle which she hated, and took to wearing a pair of horned rim glasses she hated even more to make herself look more matronly.

 

She worked to shift the majority of her money (she’d grown quite wealthy thanks to Howard’s generous salary and Tony’s almost prescient knowledge of the stock market) into accounts in Switzerland and opened a trust with Will as the executor for the event of her death.

 

They still had the Iowa house, meticulously maintained (technically owned by a shell corporation she and Will had formed to help move her assets) and any of the belongings she couldn’t bear to be parted with were stored there.

 

But the last straw came in September of 1962 when an interesting pair of men fell in beside her and introduced themselves as she walked from work to a local cafe to pick up lunch.

 

Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr wanted to talk to her privately about a matter of utmost importance.

 

How aggravating.

 

People occasionally approached her in an attempt to get close to Howard.

 

She tried to brush them off politely but the game changed when Charles looked at her with his compelling blue eyes and time weirdly froze around them—cars stopping, people still as statues in mid stride, and they were abruptly surrounded by silence.

 

He quietly said, “We’re looking for people like you—like us. People with _special talents.”_

 

Erik nodded beside him, tossing a coin into the air which slowly circled in the air over his palm.

 

_Ah._

 

_She remembered the boy who’d disappeared from Auschwitz—the one who could move metal with his mind._

 

She’d blinked at them, turning to study the frozen world around them before cutting her eyes back to Charles, “You’re doing this?” She said.

 

He nodded.

 

She sighed deeply and said tiredly, “What do you want with me?”

 

Erik remained conspicuously silent, coin spinning, his eyes intent on her as Charles outlined their proposal. The formation of a team of mutants. Working with the the government in something called Division X to stop mutants who are using their powers to do harm.

 

“We are at a tipping point in history Miss Garland—humanity is at stake, this is our opportunity to show how mutants can help rather than harm. We can make a difference—prove we can peacefully coexist,” Charles said.

 

She raised an eyebrow, turning her gaze on Erik, who’d remained impassive during Charles’ impassioned speech.

 

Her curiosity got the best of her and she said, “Und Sie? Sind Sie einverstanden?” _And you? Do you agree?_

 

Only the slight widening of Lensherr’s steel blue eyes betrayed his surprise when she spoke German and his lips twisted into the precursor to a snarl before he schooled his handsome features into placidity and said, “For now.”

 

She raised an eyebrow.

 

_Interesting._

 

Charles frowned slightly at Erik and said, “You could be a valuable member of the team with your talents.”

 

Darcy's eyes narrowed and she said, “What do you know of my _talents_?”

 

Charles tapped his temple with one finger, and smiled wryly, “I can read your mind,” she startled, her thoughts racing— _Run, she had to run._ He continued soothingly, “Don’t worry—it’s just surface thoughts. I try to be polite. There are many of us, with a kaleidoscope of talents. We could all learn from each other. And with your experience—“

 

Darcy said abruptly, “I’m not a soldier anymore—not for a long time.”

 

Erik shifted next to Charles, his expression sharpening.

 

She didn’t count the occasional rare times since the war when she’d acted as anonymous backup for Peggy in various S.H.I.E.L.D. operations.

 

Reconnaissance and sharp shooters worked best from a distance—she’d insisted on the use of a code name— _Pilgrim_. She never was in close contact with any agents other than Peggy or on a few occasions Dum-Dum who still did field work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Her occasional moonlighting as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative remained off the books.

 

Charles’ persuasive voice whispered in her head— _with us, you could explore the limits of your powers—you would be free to be yourself—always._

 

Darcy hissed, “Get out of my head.”

 

Charles was decent enough to look abashed and said quietly, “Apologies.”

 

Darcy exhaled slowly and squared her shoulders, “I’m going to have to politely decline. I have—other— obligations.”

 

Xavier looked disappointed but not surprised.

 

He withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her—the world around them abruptly spinning into motion. The coin dropped into Erik’s hand as the deafening silence that had surrounded them the last few minutes was ended by the returning sounds of traffic and people talking. He tightened his fist around the coin briefly before tucking it into his pocket.

 

“If you change your mind—contact me,” Charles said.

 

She glanced briefly at the card and dropped it in her purse.

 

“I won’t,” she said, and walked away.

 

Two months later she stood in the rain on a rocky outcropping off of the Pacific Coast Highway near Big Sur at 2am and watched the ocean waves lap against the crumpled remains of her car on the rocks below. Two cars idled behind her, and Howard and Will stood solemnly by her side.

 

Howard murmured, “The tide is coming in—the authorities will think your body washed out to sea.”

 

Darcy sighed, “Darcy Garland is dead, long live Elizabeth Grant.”

 

Will’s fingers tightened convulsively on her shoulder and she tucked herself closer to his side, wrapping her arms around his middle.

 

Elizabeth Grant was 26 years old, a serious and driven woman with no close family left to her. She was going on a tour of Europe—a rare frivolous adventure achieved with a small inheritance before starting a new position at Massachusetts General Hospital in April as a trauma nurse specialist.

 

Her new identity, courtesy of Peggy’s contacts and Darcy’s money, was airtight.

 

She’d kept up with advancements in nursing and had spent the last 6 weeks furiously studying so she would be prepared and up to date for the interview a week ago, immediately after which she’d been offered the position. The letters of recommendation and school transcripts were forgeries of course, but they represented her skills accurately.

 

Funny how her career had come full circle.

 

Although initially leery about returning to nursing, she’d finally decided the position would work after she’d shadowed an E.R. nurse to find out if the battle fatigue she’d once suffered would be triggered. It wasn’t.

 

The nightmares from the war had long subsided, new memories layering over the old to cushion her psyche from past traumas.

 

If she had to start a new life, she wanted it to count.

 

It would be hard to not see Will, Tony, and Howard nearly everyday as she had for years, but it was time. Everyone had grown older without her and her visitors from several months ago had alerted her to the possibility of government discovery.

 

Everyone other than the four people in her life who knew about her mutation would think she’d died.

 

It pained her to enact such a hurtful deception, her mind turned to Jarvis and Ana, and Bucky’s family, grown less familiar with time.

 

But it’s necessary.

 

Howard said flippantly, “Well, this is a shitty way to end your vacation weekend in Carmel, Darce. I mean, plummeting off a cliff on your way back to L.A.? Tragic. The office is gonna be a mess for months.”

 

Darcy slapped Howard’s shoulder, “Is that all you’re worried about? Geez. My assistants should be able to handle things just fine. I’ve been slowly preparing them for a couple years after all.”

 

It was true. They’d known she’d have to leave eventually.

 

Howard had helped her set up a bank account under her new name which would be receiving some large sums of money in the coming months, once Darcy was officially declared dead. Her fortune would go into the trust they’d arranged and eventually be funneled through the shell corporation to Elizabeth Grant.

 

Will nudged her shoulder, “Well Elizabeth, I guess we better get going if you want to make your flight to New York.”

 

“Yeah,” she said, taking one last wistful look at her car before turning away from the cliff.

 

She turns to hug Howard tightly, who despite his discomfort with physical affection (outside of sex) returns her embrace, whispering in her ear, “If you need anything—anything at all—just call.”

 

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.

 

“I will,” she says, her voice hoarse from suppressed tears.

 

She pats him gently on the back and steps away, finally letting go.

 

()()()()()()

 

Darcy tilts her head at the sound of a familiar gait approaching and leans forward in her chair to take a last sip of her lukewarm white coffee, scanning the crowded sidewalk for an old friend.

 

She spots her weaving through a crowd of people half a block away—looking very unlike herself in a knee length powder blue sheath dress, her face shaded by a stylish hat and somewhat obscured by dark sunglasses. Her hair is blonde, likely a wig, but Darcy recognizes Peggy by the sound of her kitten heels clicking on the sidewalk even before she murmurs, “ _Darcy_ ,” from half a block away as she pauses to admire a dress hanging in a shop window.

 

She calmly sets her cup down and her lips curve upward as her friend draws closer.

 

Peggy is 48, still a beautiful woman, but past the prime of her life.

 

Darcy is 49 and looks 25 though her identification proclaims her to be 32.

 

She dresses for her supposed age in bell bottom jeans, stylish brown leather boots with a block heel, and a thin fitted navy blue and white striped sweater. Large round white framed sunglasses hide her eyes and she wears her dark hair parted in the middle, hanging halfway down her back.

 

She’ll probably look 25 for a long time—Howard’s tests couldn’t determine if she was aging extremely slowly or not at all.

 

They haven’t seen each other in three years—the last time Darcy had been called in as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.

 

It was reconnaissance on a group selling stolen technology in East Germany, their wares uncomfortably similar to top secret designs Howard had developed for S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Peggy had been her contact point and she’d worked alone, as she preferred.

 

The organization Peggy and Howard had founded is getting too big for Darcy to work with and remain anonymous, however. The Cold War is going strong and the conflict in Vietnam is in full swing, spies and secrets abound, but it’s not for her anymore.

 

She never wanted to be a soldier, but she’s joining the Army yet again.

 

Peggy drops into the seat across from her and says, “Hello Beth, I hope you weren’t waiting long?” And signals a waiter who quickly arrives to take her order of an espresso and croissant.

 

“Not long,” Darcy says.

 

Darcy had planned her time in Paris to coincide with Peggy’s family vacation to London. Daniel and the children are there while Peggy is taking the weekend to meet up with Darcy.

 

After the waiter moves away Darcy whispers, “Why the disguise?”

 

Peggy shrugs, “You never know who’s watching.”

 

She lowers her sunglasses to give Darcy a critical look.

 

“Hmmm,” she says quietly, “are you absolutely certain about Vietnam, darling?”

 

“Yes. It’s time for a change—I’ve left my position at the hospital. There’s nothing new for me to learn there,” Darcy says.

 

_And she’s restless—the routine of her days had become stifling._

 

Peggy sighs, “Fine,” and reaches into her bag to withdraw a file which she slides across to Darcy.

 

Darcy flicks through it, scanning rapidly. She’s to return to the States in a week for Army Nurses training then on to the 95th evacuation hospital in Da Nang.

 

She can be useful there—help the young men forced into a conflict not of their own design much like she did more than 20 years ago.

 

_She’s ready._

 

She slides the file into her bag just as the waiter returns with Peggy’s order and waits for the man to retreat before saying, “So any new gossip?”

 

Peggy hums as she tears a piece from her croissant and pops it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

 

“Have you heard Howard is getting married?” She says, a smug grin curling her lips.

 

“What? _No_.” Darcy says disbelievingly.

 

“ _Yes._ To Tony’s sister Maria,” Peggy says.

 

“Are you kidding? She’s 20 years younger than him,” she squawks and Peggy murmurs, “20 years— _oh_ _dear_ ,” and smirks at her.

 

Darcy feels her cheeks heat with a blush, “It’s not the same for me,” she says, lowering her voice to mutter, “I can’t believe Will didn’t mention this in his last letter.”

 

Peggy shrugs and says, “To be fair, it is rather sudden and you’ve been gadding about Europe for the last six weeks. He’s been on about his legacy or some such nonsense.”

 

“Oh my,” Darcy says, “Tony must be beside himself.”

 

Peggy laughingly replies, “Indeed.”

  
  
[Yes, Darcy slept with James Dean](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Dean)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Darcy is off to Vietnam then who knows where else. She’s gonna be Forrest Gumpin’ it through history til Steve shows up—I’ll try to make it interesting.
> 
> Sorry if anyone is sad about Darcy taking lovers. She’s lonely and thinks her guys are dead. Cut a girl a break. I’m not going to go into great detail with her relationships, let’s just assume she isn’t a nun.
> 
> SHIELD acronym in this chapter is from comics, the meaning wiill change as time moves forward. That little X-men crossover is not going to be the trend but Darcy may run into someone familiar in Vietnam...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy goes to Vietnam and runs into someone she recognizes from long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta
> 
> All mistakes are mine, the depiction of Darcy’s experience in Vietnam is somewhat historically accurate, but I took some liberties given the lack of specifics I could find about nurses housing, etc. 
> 
> Finally I let myself stop researching. It was getting ridiculous—it’s fanfiction.

She September 20, 1967

95th Evacuation Hospital

Da Nang, Vietnam

3am

 

Darcy finishes changing the bandages on what remains of the soldiers arm as he shivers, teeth chattering and damp with perspiration. Thank god he is unconscious or he would have been thrashing as she carefully cleaned the stump that protrudes 6 inches past his shoulder.

 

She gathers the bloody bandages and drops them into the bucket beside the cot, pulls the sheet up over his chest and wipes his brow with a damp cloth before straightening to stretch the ache from her lower back, swiping her arm across her sweaty forehead.

 

Inside the hospital is cooler than outside, but the climate is so hot and humid the air cooler struggles to keep it bearable. The quarters she shares with nearly a dozen nurses will be a sauna as they only have fans to cool them.

 

Hopefully, she can shower—her wet hair will keep her cool. In fact, she usually braids it while it’s still wet and the high humidity means it will be damp most of the day.

 

She glances down the row of cots at her charges in the night dimmed double long Quonset hut which is part of the intensive care ward. Many are restless despite the use of morphine, mumbling and shuddering in their sleep.

 

They are all _so young._

 

She doesn’t remember the soldiers being so young during the last war she’d served in. Here, the average soldier is 19 years old.

 

Children, really.

 

The door clicks open at the end of the hut and a blonde nurse named Edie Thomas steps in, greeting the soldier guarding the door with a dimpled smile, “Hey, Larry,” she says softly as Darcy heads in her direction, listening carefully to her patients breathing and heartbeats as she goes, adjusting I.V.’s and tucking sheets around them where necessary.

 

“Hello, Beth,” Edie greets as she approaches. “Anything particular for me to keep my eye on?”

 

“A few things,” Darcy says, emptying the bucket into the large bin marked _Medical Waste_ before grabbing the log book off the steel desk nearby.

 

She glances over her shift notes and says, “The soldiers in beds 7, 9, and 18 will be due for more morphine at 5am. Keep an eye on bed 20–he’s feverish. Also beds 2 and 14–they seemed a bit off, I suspect infection but it’s early yet.”

 

_She knows there’s something wrong—they smell off._

 

But it’s too early for it to be detected visually and the soldiers temperatures haven’t risen significantly so she can only give warning.

 

Edie looks over Darcy’s notes, nodding thoughtfully, “I’ll keep a careful eye on them—I don’t know how you do it but you always seem to spot a problem before everyone else.”

 

Darcy shrugs and drawls, “My mama always said I had an eye for trouble.”

 

“Well, your mama was right,” Edie says, and walks over to the sink in the corner to wash her hands.

 

Darcy takes a few minutes to add to the charts for the last couple of patients she’d seen and walks to slot them at the end of each bed.

 

She pats the foot of a young man named Mike whose bleary green eyes focus on her as she passes.

 

“You off shift?” He says hoarsely.

 

“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

 

“Be countin’ on it angel,” he mutters. “Hey, ya think you could help me write a letter to my ma?” He lifts the stump of his right arm, “Don’t think I’ll be writin’ for a while.”

 

“Sure thing, as long as I’m not too busy,” she replies and glances down the row of beds at Edie. “Well, I gotta get some rest. Be good for Lieutenant Thomas okay?”

 

Mike curls onto his left side and murmurs, “You bet.”

 

Darcy exits the ward and the humidity wraps around her like a blanket. The temperature is 78 degrees—compared to the daytime temperatures it is cool. They’re on the cusp of the rainy season where she’s been told it will rain almost every day until December.

 

She supposes it’s fortunate the 95th is near the beach, as Da Nang is located on the coast of the South China Sea. The soil is a fine sand, so they won’t be awash in mud at least.

 

Early morning fog swirls around her ankles as she walks down the path to her quarters and clouds of insects whirl around the lights illuminating the narrow road that divides the rows of Quonset huts.

 

Vietnam is unlike anywhere she’s ever lived before.

 

The first thing she noticed was the heat, of course. She had stepped off the USNS Geiger when it made port in Da Nang and soon after boarded an army green bus, the windows lined in chicken wire and the interior so stifling she was drenched in sweat almost immediately. They were told to keep the windows closed, if there was incoming the wire would protect them from shrapnel.

 

The native people—some of whom spoke French—were friendly and warm, her fluency in the language a boon whenever she had a day to explore, which wasn’t often. Nurses were not allowed off base except when escorted by soldiers but there had been a couple of group trips.

 

There were many orphans who roamed Da Nang and the area around the base—it was surrounded on three sides by plywood and corrugated iron huts housing thousands of impoverished Vietnamese displaced by the war. Swarms of children would converge on them begging for money every time they went into town. Some were accomplished pick pockets, though they never succeeded in robbing her. She carried handfuls of hard candies and change in her pockets to give to any of the children she saw.

 

She worked 12 hour shifts 6 days a week. Commanders were supposed to give staff one day off a week but it didn’t always work out that way. In emergency situations all hands were on deck for however long they were needed.

 

Usually, on a day off she tries to catch up on sleep before wandering over to the PX to stock up on some essentials, send some letters home, get her laundry done, maybe buy a magazine and some beer if there’s any available.

 

She bought a Polaroid instamatic camera and carries it with her nearly everywhere. The instant developing film is a wonder (60 seconds until the picture shows up!) and she has quite a photo collection now.

 

Sometimes, she takes her beer down to the beach and sits on the pale golden sand with one of her roommates and watches the boats coming to port and the off duty soldiers playing in the surf.

 

Occasionally, she goes over to the officers club where she can listen to music and socialize a bit with the nurses, doctors, and officers who congregate there. Other times, she goes back to the hospital and writes letters for the injured soldiers to their families back home.

 

Time passes quickly.

 

Most of the patients in the ward are there five days or so, until they stabilize enough to send to the military hospital in Japan. She always wonders what happens to them, how they complete their recoveries, but once they transfer they do not hear anything from them again.

 

She hopes for the best.

 

The soldiers who work security around the hospital change, new units shifting back for lighter duty before returning inland to fire bases in the battle zones.

 

Sometimes, off duty soldiers come to the beach for R&R—they frequent the bars of Da Nang, get drunk, and some become disorderly, many seeking out the prostitutes who flock there to earn a living.

 

She sincerely hopes they take advantage of all of the free condoms the military supplies.

 

The long hours don’t bother her, especially when there’s a large number of rowdy soldiers on leave looking to blow off steam on base. They can be trouble for a woman alone.

 

She’s been harassed several times. Despite the drab army green fatigues she typically wears, she is noticeably female and non-native, therefore a rarity. Thus, there is the occasional man who feels entitled to her attention.

 

It’s annoying, but she knows how to handle it. Besides, drunk young men are ridiculously slow compared to her and she can hear them coming from a mile away.  

 

The nurses are housed in a group of Quonset huts close to hospital, with male medical staff housed in a separate section. GI’s tasked with guarding the hospital are housed closer to the perimeter of the base which is dotted with 40 foot guard towers.

 

She arrives at her hut, quietly creeping in and not bothering to turn on the lights to avoid disturbing the roommates she can detect sleeping soundly in their bunks.

 

The hut is a long, semicircular structure painted a drab green, 20 feet wide and 48 feet long. There are three small windows along each side and one in front next to the door that allow some air circulation. Upon entry there is an open area with two iceboxes, a hot plate, and a plywood countertop to the left which serves as the kitchen and to the right a couple of folding tables with chairs around them. A narrow hallway goes straight back, the hut divided on either side into three bedrooms furnished with bunk beds and not much else.

 

All told, 12 women share the hut and very little privacy is available. Fortunately, they are never all there at the same time anyway.

 

The women’s latrines are about 30 yards away and there are bathing facilities nearby.

 

Every morning the 55 gallon drums positioned under the latrines to receive waste are dragged out, then a gallon of aviation fuel is poured in and lit. The pungent odor of the smoke is something everyone had to become accustomed to.

 

Outside is a water spigot from which they and the occupants of the surrounding huts fill their canteens with brackish water and collect wash water for cleaning their used dishes, any laundry they may want to wash in between trips to the PX, and for in between uses of the shower facilities.

 

It is a very spartan living space, but much better than the canvas tent she’d lived in until the hospital had moved in July from Red Beach to the base of Monkey Mountain. Her arrival in May had been a gauntlet of long hours, heat, insect invaders, and the constant harassment of enemy action in nearby areas keeping them on high alert.

 

The air is stuffy, the table fan perched on the countertop listlessly stirring the air.

 

She crosses to the counter and opens one of the steel bins they keep utensils, plates, and metal cups in. She pulls out a cup and opens one of the ice boxes. Not much in there—they eat at the mess usually, but they always keep a couple of communal pitchers of water and she fills her cup with the refreshingly cold water and downs it quickly.

 

They each have designated sections of the icebox for any food or beverages they may buy—she grabs one of the beers she bought two days ago and never got to drink and pops the top, sipping on it as she wanders to her bedroom.

 

She rummages through her trunk and pulls out her bathing supplies—soap, a towel, a comb, clean underwear, and fatigues. She tosses everything into a canvas bag and heads out to make use of the latrine, then bathing facilities.

 

The water will be cold this early in the morning—the only source to warm the tanks is the relentless daytime heat, but she doesn’t care.

 

Just after sunrise, her braided hair is still damp on the pillow when she awakes from a sound sleep with a gasp, the distant but persistent _whump whump whump_ of helicopter rotors signaling incoming injured soldiers.

 

She quickly levers herself into a sitting position and dangles her legs over the side of the bunk, sighing as she rolls her neck to work out the slight stiffness from sleeping on the hard bed. She drowsily watches a large centipede crawl across the outside of the window screen as she mentally calculates the number of helicopters heading their way, based on what she can hear.

 

It sounds like a lot.

 

She jumps down and whacks the screen, sending the centipede flying before grabbing her pants from the top of her trunk, shaking them out and shimmying into them.

 

She may as well head over to the hospital.

 

()()()()()()

 

February 15, 1968

Officers Club

9pm

 

Darcy leans on the bar, exhausted, a glass of whiskey dangling in her hand. She’s worked fourteen days without a break, sometimes with only brief naps to refresh her. She’s able to carry on much longer than her peers, but even she gets tired after a while.

 

January 30th, or _Tet_ as the Vietnamese New Year is called, had brought an unprecedented offensive push by the North Vietnamese forces. The influx of injured soldiers was unrelenting.

 

Today, after getting off a 13 hour shift, showering, and eating the three Hershey bars she’d stashed in the back of the icebox, she’d gone to the mess to eat as much as she could without drawing notice (not enough—never enough, thus the Hershey bars) and had gone back to her hut and attempted to sleep.

 

No dice.

 

So now she’s here, ignoring the group of officers in the corner playing cards, the worn-looking doctors talking lowly two stools over from her, and the other nurses, doctors, and commissioned officers doing their best to let off a little steam before they get back to work.

 

There’s a fly-specked mirror behind the bar she uses to keep an eye on the room as she gets closer to the bottom of her glass.

 

A radio tuned to the Armed Forces Radio Network plays a continuous stream of current music and the occasional military news announcement designed by PR to bolster morale. The reports are seldom close to the reality of what’s going on in Vietnam or in the States.

 

The war in Vietnam is not a popular one.

 

Back in the states, the media had already begun covering anti-war protests before she’d shipped out and ex-soldiers often spoke out against the conflict. In Vietnam, the military seeks to squash any rumors of unrest within the troops.

 

She’s heard rumors, though. They all have. GI’s rebelling against orders in the field, refusing to fight, even killing their officers. The fact is, most of the GI’s don’t want to be here, had been drafted, and were tired of risking their lives for a meaningless piece of real estate.

 

Personally, she doesn’t believe in the conflict and she isn’t here to forward the interests of the United States government. She’s here to help the soldiers, to heal and support them as best she can.

 

She’s finishing off the last swallow of her drink when she hears a commotion outside of the club—two men arguing heatedly, though not shouting—otherwise the MP standing by the door would have been alerted by now.

 

A raspy voice says, _“_ Victor— _come on_. We aren’t officers and we can’t go in there.”

 

A deeper voice growls, “I don’t care—I wanna drink, and a woman to fuck. The only round eyed women are either in the hospital or in there. I’m going in. Fucking officers can’t keep everything for themselves.”

 

The sound of a scuffle closer to the door, a grunt and the deeper voice snarling, “Get off me!”

 

She gets to her feet, leaning her back against the bar, gazing expectantly at the door.

 

The MP snaps to attention as the men stumble through the door, one tall and thickly muscled, his cat green gaze feral and face red as the slightly smaller man wraps one arm around his neck to pull him back.

 

The taller man snarls, “Lemme go, James.”

 

“ _No_ ,” the man rasps, his dark gaze scanning the room briefly, pausing on her, his brows briefly raising in surprise before his face goes blank, focusing on the MP. “Sorry sir, we just went to check on a couple of our guys at the hospital and it upset my brother.”

 

Sometimes, the past grabs her by the ankles and pulls her under.

 

She inhales sharply, recognition rolling over her in a wave—James Howlett. Last time she saw him in uniform he was serving with the Canadian Armed forces. Now he’s in a United States Army uniform and his stripes indicate he’s a sergeant.

 

A host of memories surge at her recognition. The days after the invasion of Normandy, the taciturn man who’d transported her to the Howlies, the overwhelming stench of death, and the relief of being reunited with Steve and Bucky.

 

He looks _exactly_ the same.

 

The other man, however, is someone she’s never met. Aggression boils off of the larger man like steam. Victor, Howlett called him. His _brother._

 

The MP says sharply, “This club is for officers only, sir. You’ll find a place for NCO’s and infantrymen closer to the perimeter.”

 

James nods, his gaze slipping briefly her way and his arm tightening around his brother’s neck, “Yes sir, we’ll be going now.”

 

He practically drags his brother away as he growls obscenities under his breath, the door swinging closed behind them.

 

She listens to their voices grow more distant as she turns back to the bar, tapping a finger on her empty glass to gain the attention of the barkeep.

 

“Another,” she says.

 

()()()()()()

 

He finally approaches her nearly a week later at the PX after she drops some film for her Instamatic into her canvas shopping bag and is pondering buying a few tins of Ritz crackers and boxes of M&M’s to add to the snack stash in her trunk.

 

She’s had a crawly feeling on the back of her neck the last few days, someone had tailed her home after a night shift, always far enough back the average human wouldn’t detect him but easily spotted with her enhanced senses.

 

One of her roommates had mentioned a gruff soldier asking about a nurse matching her description up at the hospital but hadn’t shared her name. There had been overly zealous young men looking to track down nurses in the past and they all knew not to give out information.

 

From the physical description of her tracker, she knew it wasn’t Howlett’s brother looking for her, which was a relief. That was some trouble she didn’t need.

 

He sidles up to her as she drops the M&M’s into her bag and mutters, “Don’t care what they say about those, they melt in your hands. Especially in this heat.”

 

She slants a look at him, raising an eyebrow before grabbing another box and dropping it into her bag along with a couple tins of Vienna sausages.

 

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she says and walks down the aisle towards the toiletry items.

 

He follows.

 

She grabs a bar of Ivory soap, a roll of toilet paper, then a six pack of beer off the shelf, heading towards the counter up front to pay for her stuff.

 

“You carry the ice and I’ll share my beer,” she says over her shoulder.

 

()()()()()()

 

They sit at the beach on ratty blanket she’d retrieved from her trunk, their boots in the sand with the makeshift cooler they’d made of an ammo case filled with ice between them.

 

They’ve barely spoken or looked at each other, eyes on the bay where the sun slowly slides towards the horizon, streaks of pink and gold lighting the underside of wispy clouds.

 

Finally, she turns to him and gives him a hard look—her eyes tracing over the planes of his face, his wide shoulders, and the sinewy arms that rest on his bent knees, a can of beer dripping with condensation in his grip.

 

His dark eyes are steady and one eyebrow raises in question.

 

She sighs, “Why have you been following me Howlett?”

 

His lips quirk and he wedges his beer in the sand, dips his long fingers into his pocket, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

 

She waits patiently as he lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, then releases the smoke in a thin stream that flutters away towards the sea.

 

“You know,” he mutters.

 

“Do I?” She asks.

 

He leans towards her and sniffs before smirking, “Yes.”

 

“Did you just _sniff_ me?” She says, irritated.

 

He taps his nose and says, “The nose knows.”

 

She clenches her jaw.

 

_What the hell._

 

She stares at him silently until he finally says, “Is your name still Darcy?”

 

“No. It’s Elizabeth.”

 

“How long?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“How long have you been _Elizabeth,”_ he says quietly.

 

She looks away, drawing circles in the condensation on her beer can, “Not too long, actually,” she says, swallowing the last of her beer before reaching for another.

 

There’s a long silence punctuated only by the fizzy sound of the beer when she pulls the tab, the waves washing to shore and the laughing and hooting of a group of soldiers rough housing in the surf about 50 yards away.

 

She takes a long swallow of the beer and sets it in the sand, pulling her knees closer to her chest and resting her elbow on one, cradling her head in her hand to gaze at Howlett’s profile.

 

“How long have you been James?” She says softly.

 

He sighs, “Always. It’s my middle name—I go by Logan now.”

 

He fishes under Army green tee shirt and pulls out the chain holding his dog tags, and shows them to her—

 

_HOWLETT_

_LOGAN JAMES_

_RA11237890_

_A NEG_

_NO PREFERENCE_

 

“Huh,” she says, “but _how long_ have you been around? Because you look exactly the same as the last time I saw you in 1944. And how did you end up in the United States Army?”

 

He turns away, stubs out his cigarette in the sand, a pensive frown on his face.

 

“We fight—me and my brother—it’s what we do. This might be the last time for the U.S. though, records are gettin’ too easy to trace.” His eyes shift to her and he says low, “I was born in Canadian Territory, 1832 or thereabouts, later moved down to the States. I fought for the North in the Civil War, I was at Antietam,” he pauses, his dark gaze far away. She knows her history—Antietam was the most bloody battle ever fought in the United States.

 

He sighs deeply and continues, “In the First World War I was with the United States Marines, 4th brigade. Moved back to Canada after that, did some logging, settled down for a bit. Joined up for the Second World War about 25 years later, with the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion. Thought I was finished after that. Worked random jobs, moved up and down the coast in the Pacific Northwest.”

 

_Holy shit._

 

_Logan is 136 years old._

 

“So—you don’t age?” She whispers.

 

He shrugs, “I did until I looked the way I do now, but that was a long time ago.”

 

Darcy focuses on his face, her eyes tracing over the fine lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he squints at the horizon, his thick dark hair and the strength evident in the musculature of his forearms.

 

He looks to be in his early thirties.

 

He says, “So, I heard what happened to Rogers. Are you like he was?”

 

“No.” She says shortly.

 

It’s been so long since she talked to anyone about Steve and when she did it was with people who loved him, too. Over the years, more information about the experiment which had created Captain America had been released, but no one had been able to successfully replicate Dr. Erskine’s formula. To this day, the general public doesn’t know a skinny kid from Brooklyn named Steve Rogers became Captain America.

 

“ _No_ ,” she repeats again, “I was born this way.”

 

Those intense dark eyes—hazel, actually—brown with flecks of gold and green in them, scrutinize her features from head to toe.

 

“When were you born?” He says.

 

“1918,” she says.

 

“Not as old as me then,” he says, his lips curving into a smug smile.

 

She nudges him with her shoulder, “Nope. Maybe I should call you Pappy.”

 

“Hey, hey—at least I don’t look like a kid,” he says.

 

“It’s only because I’m so damn short,” she mutters.

 

He snorts in agreement.

 

His eyes widen as some thought crosses his mind. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and nervously says, “Say, what was your mama’s name?”

 

“Dorothy Lewis née O’Connell. Why?”

 

He sags in relief and says wryly, “Just makin’ sure we ain’t related.”

 

She laughs, slapping his shoulder playfully, “Ha! Worried you’re my daddy?”

 

He shrugs, “Didn’t know any Dorothy’s back in 1917. What’d she look like?”

 

“Short, curvy, and blond. Great dancer. Lived in Iowa her whole life.”

 

“Never actually been to Iowa. What about your dad?”

 

“His name was David Lewis. Mama met him at a dance in Cedar Rapids, he died in the First War. Don’t know much else.” She says.

 

“Huh. Doesn’t sound like anybody I knew. If we’re related in any way it’s probably distant. I’ve been careful about um—makin’ kids.” He says gruffly.

 

“Oh, uh—good.” She says awkwardly.

 

_Jesus._

 

_Imagine if he were her father. Or grandfather._

 

“So—you got anything else?” He says.

 

“Anything else?” She says.

 

“Yeah—like this,” he glances around before laying his hand on the blanket and flexing his fingers. She gasps in shock as three bony claws slide from the skin over his knuckles, the bloody cuts they’d burst through quickly sealing around them. When fully extended, they’re nearly nine inches long.

 

“Holy shit,” she whispers, reaching automatically before stopping herself to ask, “is it okay if I touch?”

 

“Yeah, be careful though—they’re very sharp.”

 

“No worries,” she says, touching the base of one claw and gently sliding her finger along the back of it. When she gets to the end of it she tests the edge, hissing when the razor sharp bone cuts her fingertip.

 

He quickly withdraws his hand and retracts the claws, saying, “I told you—“

 

She raises her finger turning it towards him so he can see the cut sealing up. “And I told _you,_ no worries.”

 

She wipes the blood off her finger and gazes at the quickly fading pink mark left behind.

 

“I guess we have more things than never getting old in common.” He says.

 

“But not claws,” she smirks, “I have a lot of questions.”

 

()()()()()()

 

She’s about halfway home from the hospital four days later when Logan slips out of the shadows between two Quonset huts to walk by her side.

 

She glances at him, unsurprised, having heard his footsteps and smelled the smoke from his cigarette long before he appeared.

 

“It’s 2am, what if I thought you were going to attack me?” She chides.

 

He shrugs. “Wanted to see what you’d do.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It ain’t safe for ladies alone at night in most places.”

 

“I’m not most ladies,” she says.

 

“Even so—my brother’s been feelin’ restless to get back into the field. He roams about at night sometimes.” He sighs, his brow furrowing as he searches for words before finally saying, “Avoid him if you can.”

 

She ponders this. In their talk at the beach he’d mentioned his brother several times. From what she could gather he has some of Logan’s abilities but is much more aggressive.

 

A shadow would fall across his features whenever he mentioned him.

 

She stops walking and reaches out to grip his arm and the muscles of his forearm flex with tension beneath her fingers.

 

“Is your brother a danger to the women on base?” She says.

 

“I don’t think so. He slips over to town to relieve some of his uh—baser urges,” he pauses, looking somewhat embarrassed. He takes a final drag on his cigarette and drops it to the ground, grinding it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. “This war—it’s a little different than the others we’ve fought. Dunno. But it brings out the animal in Victor. He needs to be fighting—he ain’t no good at waiting.”

 

She nods slowly, releasing his arm to continue walking.

 

“How long ‘til you're out in the field again?”

 

“Couple weeks,” he says.

 

She’s silent, thinking of the horrific injuries she’s seen in her work, particularly in the last month. She wonders what it would take to kill Logan and hopes she’ll never find out.

 

“So—how soon did ya spot me when you came out of the hospital?”

 

“The minute I stepped out.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Huh.”

 

()()()()()()

 

A few nights later he says, “I want ya to hit me as hard as you can.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I wanna see what you can do.”

 

They pause in the darkness just outside of the pool of light from the street lights. The whirl of insects circling the lamp creates a constant buzz.

 

She glances around, noting their distance from the guard towers to see if they’ve attracted attention. All clear.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He sighs, irritated. “ _Yes.”_

 

“As hard as I can?”

 

“What’d I say? You speak English, girlie? _Ye—“_

 

She winds up and hits him with a right hook, then kicks him in the balls for good measure.

 

She shakes out her hand, the split skin on her knuckles sealing as he hunches over, his face contorted in agony as he cups his crotch.

 

He finally straightens and wheezes, “That’ll do.”

 

()()()()()()

 

They’re at the beach on her day off (the second one in four weeks!), sharing a blanket and beer in the late afternoon sun. There’s a nice breeze off the water, a blessing since the day had been a scorcher.

 

Logan is good company, and his slightly menacing appearance keeps the off duty soldiers from approaching her. It’s sort of like having a guard dog.

 

They’re on their second beer (this time they bought a case, neither one of them can get drunk without effort and hard liquor) when he says, “Say, whatever happened to Sergeant Barnes? He was your fella right?”

 

She’s quiet for a long time, looking out to sea. She thinks of the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he smiled and how soft his hair was beneath her fingers. She remembers walking down that dark tunnel with the Howlies. She remembers Steve’s face when he told her Bucky had fallen from the train.

 

She turns to look at Logan, his dark eyes somber and watchful as he awaits her answer.

 

“He died,” she finally says. “Pass me another beer.”

 

He passes her two.

 

()()()()()()

 

They’re walking home in the dark again a couple days later and she asks, “Don’t you worry about getting found out? I mean, the world definitely knows about mutants now, thanks to that asshole who threatened the world with a nuclear sub in ‘62.”

 

He shrugs. “At least we blend. I heard rumor of a blue guy with a forked tail who could disappear from one place and appear in another?” He looks at her in question.

 

“Teleporting?” She says.

 

“Yeah—that. He certainly can’t hide.”

 

“True. But it becomes pretty obvious after a while if you’re not aging.”

 

“I don’t stay in any place long enough for it to matter. Plus, I tend to keep a low profile anyway. But yeah, record keeping is getting tighter with photo ID’s and fingerprinting—“ he shakes his head and frowns.

 

“Yeah. Hey, if you ever want a new set of papers I have connections.”

 

He gives her a sharp look. “Maybe I’ll take you up on it.”

 

They walk in silence for a few minutes and he pulls a cigarette from his pack and lights it, the end of it a cherry red beacon in the early morning fog that nearly obscures the Quonset huts they pass.

 

“Hey, did a couple of fellas named Xavier and Lensherr ever approach you about some government mutant team called Division X or something?” She says.

 

“Yeah—I told them to fuck off,” he says grumpily.

 

“Me too, though not with those exact words.” She says.

 

“Ain’t much of a team player anyhow,” he says.

 

“I gathered.”

 

()()()()()()

 

March 8, 1969

 

“So, that’s it then?” She says as she waits for her laundry in the PX.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “we’re headed out tomorrow.”

 

She’s quiet, distractedly picking up a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and rolling it between her fingers. She’ll miss him. It’s been good to talk to someone she didn’t have to hide her difference from.

 

He steps closer, his shoulder rubbing against hers. “I’ll miss you, kid.” He says quietly.

 

She looks up at him and sees a rare flash of vulnerability in his eyes.

 

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it and he squeezes back. “Not a kid Logan. I’ll miss you too—maybe we can write each other?” She says.

 

“Dunno where I’m gonna be and you’re shipping outta here the beginning of May.”

 

She wilts a little under the reality that this may be the last they see of each other. She straightens when she gets an idea.

 

“You know Howard Stark?”

 

“Of course I do. Millionaire genius with a giant fucking ego?”

 

She snorts, “Yeah, that’s him. My brother works for him. If you ever need to get a message to me send it to Stark Industries in California. Care of Will Garland. He’ll get it to me.”

 

She rummages in her bag for a pencil and a piece of paper, writing the California address and Will’s work number on it. He takes the paper from her, reading it carefully before folding it and putting it in his shirt pocket.

 

He pats the pocket and says, “I’ll do that.”

  
  
  
  
  
[Being a nurse in the Vietnam War](https://vvmf.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/angels-of-war-a-vietnam-nurse/)

[Ack! Insects in Vietnam](https://cherrieswriter.com/2015/01/30/bugs-and-insects-share-the-vietnam-jungle-with-u-s-soldiers/)

 

[95th Evacuation Hospital Da Nang, Vietnam](https://www.stripes.com/news/for-the-wounded-a-place-of-hope-1.68070)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. I’m inching along on this fic, summer is a hard time for me to write and there’s a lot of research involved to make it historically accurate. I’d also like to get a few chapters ahead before posting again so it might be a bit before I post some more. I appreciate how patient and supportive all of you lovely readers have been!
> 
> For those of you who wonder—Logan never sends a message to Darcy and if she sees him again he won’t recognize her. Amnesia is a hell of a thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy is Forrest Gumping it in 1969.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta
> 
> Updates are still going to be sporadic as writing is difficult during the summer. Hopefully I’ll pick up the pace once school resumes and my teacher husband is out of my hair a bit more, lol.

July 16, 1969

Cape Canaveral, Florida

9:15am

 

Darcy sits beside Will on a folding lawn chair on the beach, sipping coffee from her thermos cup. 

 

It’s near 80 already and humid, she’s been back from Vietnam for a year but the weather feels familiar. Will is fanning himself with his newspaper and holding a sweating bottle of Coca Cola, his straw fedora and sunglasses in place. The low morning sun glares across the water and the beaches are overrun with spectators. The murmur of the crowd surrounding them nearly drowns out the sound of the waves and the strident cries of seagulls hoping to snatch up some food from the early morning picnickers are constant.

 

The Apollo 11 moon launch is a big deal.

 

“I don’t see how you can drink coffee when it’s this warm,” he grumbles, fanning himself more vigorously. 

 

She adjusts the brim of her floppy straw hat, toes off her sandals, and reaches for the thermos wedged into the sand next to her chair, unscrewing the top to pour a little more into her cup. “Dunno, I got used to the heat in Vietnam and I feel like I ran on coffee the entire time I was there.”

 

Which is weird, because caffeine doesn’t act on her for long. It’s more like a familiar habit rather than an actual need for her. She still prefers tea, but finding a decent cup of tea in the States is far more challenging than in Europe. The hotel they stayed at had only offered coffee so that’s what she’s drinking.

 

Will nods, taking a long swallow of his cola. He shifts in his chair to get more comfortable and adjusts the brim of his hat to shade his face. 

 

She absently listens to the excited chatter around her, pulling her feet back as two young boys run past giggling. “I’m surprised Tony didn’t want to come with us,” she says.

 

Will’s jaw tenses for a moment before he shrugs, “Oh, he’s been feeling a bit run down lately. He’s been working a lot on the financials since Howard is finally incorporating the company and going public.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

He lowers his sunglasses to squint his green eyes at her assessingly, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening, “How have you been?” He says quietly.

 

She glances away, digging her toes into the sand under her long cotton skirt as she evaluates the crowd around her, automatically calculating potential threats. It’s a hard habit to break—the constant situational awareness is something she’ll probably always have to one degree or another. 

 

War does that. She supposes it will take more time for her to remember how to be a civilian again. Particularly in crowds.

 

“Better,” she says.

 

She’d come home in mid May of 1968, her ship docking at the port near Oakland Army Base in California. As soon as she’d settled her affairs, she’d hefted her duffel bag over her shoulder (she’d arranged to have the rest of her stuff shipped to Will and Tony’s home near Malibu) and taken a bus to San Francisco. Will had arranged a hotel room at the Palace Hotel for her and left a red VW Beetle in the parking lot, the keys given to her by a lovely receptionist in an envelope with _Elizabeth Grant_ written on it when she checked in. 

 

She’d stayed in the room for two days, alternating between sleeping, taking long baths ( _God,_ she’d missed baths) in the well appointed bathroom, and ordering enough room service to feed two people.

 

Finally, she’d emerged from her self imposed isolation like a butterfly from it’s chrysalis— in civilian clothes, with her long hair clean and loose in a way it hadn’t been in a year. She checked out of the hotel and drove the Volkswagen south to meet up with Will at the beach house Howard owned near Carmel.

 

They’d had a lovely reunion and Tony had joined them a few days later. However, anyone could see how jumpy she was and it was a strain to act normal after being in a war zone. 

 

Conversation was exhausting. 

 

She was unable to articulate the combination of relief and loss she felt being home. Her experiences in Vietnam would be described by most people as horrific, but some part of her missed it. She’d fit there, in the hospital, united in purpose with the nurses and doctors striving to heal the broken soldiers sent their way.

 

She was used to moving from one crisis to another and the art of small talk seemed lost to her. When issues of life or death had been the primary substance of her days, it was hard to talk about everyday things or care much about them either.

 

Fortunately, Will and Tony understood and the two weeks she’d spent with them had been the rest she’d needed. They’d indulged her preference for quiet and eased her into the world again with good food, days spent lost in books, naps, and hikes along the beach. She gradually regained her equilibrium.

 

One day they had chartered a boat to go fishing in the bay. They’d gone out early, the sky barely brightening and the moon still faintly visible as they’d pulled away from the dock. The water was so still that once they’d cut the engine and put out their fishing lines, the only sounds were hushed conversations between Will and Tony with the ship's captain and mate, along with the gentle slap of the waves against the hull.

 

She’d moved to sit on a bench near the bow of the ship, a soft nubby blanket she’d knitted wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of coffee warm between her palms as she watched the sun rise. She’d breathed deeply, the memories of all of the oceans she’d seen playing behind her eyes as the sky slowly shifted from and dusky blue to gold, pink, and saffron orange where it met the water. 

 

She heard them before she saw them—heard them before anyone else noticed they were there.

 

Deep, mournful calls echoed through the depths, to be returned by higher cries and watery clicks. She turned to the starboard side, casting her eyes over the still water.

 

Just as the sun was peeking over the horizon and the moon had faded from the sky, the dark back of a whale breached the water 20 yards away, it’s blowhole spouting maybe 13 feet in the air.

 

“Whales!” Tony cried and everyone turned to watch the small pod of whales approach and swim past, some of the adult whales longer than their boat.

 

“Humpbacks,” the captain said.

 

Will made his way to the bow of the ship to stand beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders while they both watched in wonder as the last whale swam alongside the boat and turned on its side to peer curiously at them, it’s eye nearly the size of her hand.

 

Logically, she knew it was only a moment, but it seemed longer; the great creature’s placid gaze focused and sentient. She’d unknowingly held her breath, awestruck by its size.

 

The moment was broken when the whale slowly slipped beneath the waves, it’s great tail, easily 15 feet wide, slapping the surface and sending a gout of water over them. She gasped and Will sputtered beside her, his straw hat comically flattened and dripping sea water.

 

For the first time in what felt like forever, she’d laughed. Couldn’t stop, actually, doubling over into hysterical giggles that somehow shifted into sobs.

 

Will held her tightly, his arms firmly wrapped around her, their sodden clothes forgotten as he gently stroked over her hair and muttered, “ _It’s okay darling, let it out, you’re home now,”_ petting and clucking at her like a mother hen as the crew and Tony went about their business and pretended not to notice.

 

She’d felt something like peace.

 

She ended up staying in Howard’s house in Carmel until early November. After Tony and Will had returned to work in L.A. Howard had offered the place to her for as long as she needed, her anonymity secured by its secluded location and grocery deliveries from town. Tony and Will came to visit nearly every weekend and Howard breezed in whenever he could pull himself away from work. 

 

Which wasn’t often.

 

He was spending more and more time in New York anyway since he and Maria had married. She had a large circle of society friends there and preferred it to California.

 

Darcy occupied her time with all of the things she’d let go in favor of work in recent years. She’d knitted and sewed, cooked all of her old favorites and tried some new ones, and took long hikes at Big Sur and along the beach. Though the likelihood of her running into anyone she knew from her former life was slim, she still disguised herself in various ways so she was able to take a painting class in Carmel, learned to sail in Monterey Bay, and rode horses at a nearby stable several times a week. At night she would read—Howard had a surprisingly diverse library—and she eagerly devoured books that she’d read previously and books that she hadn’t alike.

 

She’d spoken to Peggy several times via phone since her return, they’d kept up correspondence while she was in Vietnam. Her friend’s plate was ever full, her deference to duty never ending. In her role as the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., there was always an enemy to fend against, always work to be done.

 

She wondered sometimes how Peggy could bear it, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. 

 

Darcy had always wanted meaningful work for herself, a purpose, a place. It seemed her very nature had betrayed that dream. The bitter truth was she would always be a pilgrim, never resting long, the people she loved destined to be brief signposts she’d eventually pass along the potentially endless road of her life.

 

The only way she’d found to combat the yawning loneliness that sought to swallow her each time she contemplated her future was to focus on the present. She created new traditions, remained curious and learned new things, visited new places, and planned trips to places she hadn’t yet seen. She maintained contact with the people she loved and tried to devote herself to some purpose.

 

She’d spent the time from Thanksgiving until early spring at the farm in Iowa, which was now taken care of by one of the late Dr. Brooks’s grandsons. A few years after she “died”, Will had put the house in a trust and sold it to Elizabeth Grant. A process she would repeat for as long as she lived, under whatever name she had. She had made arrangements for her return—the electricity turned on, the driveway cleared, the ice box stocked and the key left under a flowerpot by the door, ready for her arrival.

 

Over the years, she and Will had purchased the surrounding land, increasing the farm’s size to just over a hundred acres. The fields her grandfather had once farmed had returned to nature, the rolling hills covered in long grasses and wildflowers. The forested area that followed the creek had expanded as well, and the house was hidden from view by the scrub and trees that grew along the property lines.

 

She’d worked right through Thanksgiving and up to the week before Christmas, cleaning and polishing the furniture, airing out the bedding and purchasing new things where needed, even going so far as to drive several towns over for paint and supplies so she could repaint the kitchen and bedrooms. The house would always be the place where she’d grown up, but she decided it was finally time to make it her own. Fresh paint on the walls and rearranging the furniture was a start.

 

Will and Tony had arrived three days before Christmas and she and her brother had trekked across the field to the forested area along the creek to cut down a tree while Tony had stayed behind to sort out the lights and ornaments she’d pulled from storage.

 

Despite his longer legs, she had to slow her pace to allow Will to keep up. He was slower than he used to be, his desk job not giving him the exercise he used to experience as a younger man. He complained mightily about her “super powers” when they paused briefly at the top of the bluff near the creek so he could catch his breath. She’d rolled her eyes at his dramatics—used to his grumbling about getting older, particularly since it became obvious that she wasn’t. 

 

They’d found the perfect tree and she’d let him cut it down, watching in amusement as he paced around it looking at it from all angles before nodding to himself and getting to work. He’d capitulated and let her drag it home, though—claiming he didn’t want to get tree sap on his new gloves, anyway.

 

It was a peaceful holiday, the snow falling steadily on December 24th to blanket the surrounding fields in white. It provided a view from the kitchen window that could have graced a postcard as she baked cookies in the afternoon and played cards with Will and Tony until bedtime. 

 

Later that night, there was a soft knock on her bedroom door as she sat on the floor in her room going through her photo albums, as was her habit on Christmas Eve. She’d already spent an hour looking through the few pictures of mama and grandpa, seeing herself sandwiched between them as a scrunched faced, dark-haired baby, to a grinning a gap-toothed child, to an awkward teen in oversized clothes.

 

Moments of joy forever frozen in time.

 

She’d advanced through the photos of Bucky and Steve, their old shabby apartment in Brooklyn in the background. In all of the photos, Bucky dipping her over his arm, pre-serum Steve’s head resting on her lap as she read a book, Bucky and Steve laughing in the back of Howard’s car—they were so happy.

 

_They were so young._

 

She closed the album and rose to open the door. Her brother stood in the hallway, two mugs of hot cocoa in his hands.

 

He shrugged, “Thought you might like some—Tony went to bed and I can’t sleep.”

 

She smiled, taking a cup from him and sniffing the rich chocolate scented steam rising from it.

 

“Mmmm,” she hummed, motioning him in.

 

He skirted the scattered photo albums on the floor and sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the changes she’d made to the room with interest. 

 

His eyes trace over the drawings she’d selected from Steve’s sketchbook, framed and hung—Bucky and herself asleep in a rumpled bed, her naked back visible to her waist and her face where it rested on Bucky’s chest nearly covered by her hair. Several landscape sketches, the swimming hole, the Brooklyn bridge.

 

A photo of Steve and Bucky from one of their many stays at the Savoy, their profiles outlined by sunlight through a window as they took in the view of the Thames.

 

Pictures of Will, Tony, Howard, and Peggy from throughout the years.

 

Will took it all in and finally said, “I like the new color,” he gestured to the pale blue walls. 

 

“Thanks,” she said, “the house needed some work.”

 

“I imagine so. It’s been a long time since we spent much time here.”

 

“Yeah. I’m going to try visiting more often,” she said, “it makes a nice retreat.”

 

She crossed the room and sat by his feet, leaning her back against the bed and pulling a box of unorganized photos from Vietnam over to sift through them. Logan’s face jumps out at her, backdropped by the ocean. 

 

She hadn’t heard from him. 

 

_Maybe she never will._

 

“I was planning on sticking these in albums. You wanna see?” She said.

 

“Sure.”

 

()()()

 

By spring she had completed all of the projects she’d started and organized the possessions she’d stored at the Iowa house in boxes. Years of photos had been placed in albums, souvenirs from her travels were displayed around the house, and the most personal of Steve’s possessions were organized and stored in her closet now with some of Bucky’s things, too—but most had gone to his family.

 

Howard had maintained his obsessive search for the Valkyrie over the years, never coming any closer to finding it. He also had all of the uniforms and weaponry he’d created for the Howlies and Captain America stored in the vault at the mansion in New York. 

 

When the weather got nicer she locked up the house and packed up her car and drove to Washington D.C. to do an off the books job for Peggy. She had to spend a couple weeks working on her fluency in Russian—Peggy supplied books and tapes, stopping by the hotel she stayed in for a month and quizzing her until she felt her command of the language was solid.

 

She took a train up to New York and checked into the luxury hotel where a Russian diplomat and his aides were staying for a few days prior to a U.N. meeting, her room was arranged on the floor above theirs. Her job was merely to listen and take notes—she was better than any listening device they could plant, undetectable by the Russian’s bug sweeping technology.

 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the diplomat but one of his aides that eventually made contact with a previously unknown Russian operative called Widow and tasked her with eliminating a diplomat from China. Tensions between Russia and China had been high since a border squabble involving the People’s Liberation Army raiding a Soviet border outpost on Zhenbao Island in March. It was unclear to her why they wanted the diplomat removed, but she passed the information on to Peggy—her end of the job complete.

 

She stayed in New York for a while, donned a disguise on the off chance someone she knew would see her and spent a day wandering Brooklyn, taking in the changes.

 

Bucky’s ma had passed away five years ago and Becca and her husband had moved away even before then, settling near Boston of all places. 

 

Will kept tabs, exchanged Christmas cards and such. Becca had three children, the oldest named James. At 20, he looked very much like his namesake, although he had dark eyes like his mother. According to her, he was much more serious and quiet than her brother had been. He was in college and had fortunately avoided being drafted to Vietnam. So far.

 

The Navy Yard had shut down in 1966 and taken 12,000 jobs with it. Manufacturing had started leaving the borough even before that and formerly good neighborhoods had fallen into poverty and violence. 

 

It soon became obvious that her disguise was unnecessary as the population of her old neighborhood had changed drastically. It was now far more ethnically diverse and many of the former residents had moved away when the manufacturing jobs left. 

 

Dr. Bobby had sold their old building 8 years ago when he retired and moved to Florida. She hoped he spent his days enjoying the sun.

 

Finally, she stopped by the cemetery to visit Steve and Bucky’s graves, glad to see they were still well kept and the donations she’d sent to the church were being used well. It didn’t hurt anymore to sit in the cemetery on the bench under the trees. In fact, it was quiet.  An oasis of peace in an otherwise tumultuous place.

 

_The dead felt no pain and their struggles were over._

 

She realized that when confronted with places from her past she was finally able to recall the good times and be happy with those memories. 

 

It was a relief.

 

()()()

 

On the beach at Cape Canaveral she holds her brother’s hand and squeezes it tight as the roar of lift off echoes across the water.

 

Gasps and cheers erupt around them as Apollo 11 soars into the sky, a bright plume of exhaust forming contrails behind it. She and Will are silent, their faces turned up until the rocket passes from sight.

 

“Safe journey, fellas,” he murmurs.

 

“Safe journey,” she sighs.

 

()()()()()()

 

Thursday

August 14, 1969

75 miles north of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 

8pm

 

She spots them by the side of the road just before dark. Two girls, maybe 19-20 years old with their thumbs out looking to hitch a ride.

 

They’re dressed in the popular hippie style of the day, long floaty skirts and peasant blouses, their long hair braided and backpacks slung over their shoulders. She marvels at their bravery ( _or maybe it’s stupidity)_ as she brings the car to a halt and leans over to roll down the window.

 

“Where you girls headed?” She calls.

 

They crowd up next to the car, one wide eyed and excited and the other more reserved.

 

“Bethel, New York! We’re meeting my brother Jimmy at the Woodstock Festival,” the excited blonde says, her blue eyes sparkling with adventure.

 

Darcy hasn’t heard of it, but whatever.

 

The other girl, a deeply tanned brunette, hangs back, her dark eyes watchful as she carefully scans Darcy then up and down the road while occasional cars pass by. 

 

_At least one of them is cautious._

 

Darcy considers the situation for a moment. She was headed to New York, Howard’s in town and she thought to make a visit. But, he’ll be there for the rest of the month—she has time. She’s not leaving two girls by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

 

“I can take you there,” she says as she leans forward and pops the lock. “You two can argue about who gets the back seat, it’s a bit cramped.”

 

“Ok, gimme a sec,” the blonde says, stepping away from the car to confer with the brunette.

 

She taps her fingers on the steering wheel as she listens to their muttered conversation. “She seems alright, better than that old man we rode with before,” the blonde says. The brunette shrugs and says she’ll take the back and they hop into the car. They get settled and Darcy eases her foot off the brake, getting them back on the road.

 

She glances at the blonde and says, “My name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Beth.”

 

“I’m Sunshine and this is my cousin Star,” the blonde says, pointed back at the brunette.

 

Darcy raises an eyebrow, “Sunshine? Star? _Really?”_

 

She glances in the rearview mirror and “Star” rolls her eyes dramatically.

 

The blonde pouts. “What? They’re good names. We wanted something cool for the festival.”

 

“Sarah,” the girl in the back says, “my name is Sarah.”

 

Darcy smirks. “Nice to meet you Sarah.”

 

The blonde huffs, “ _Fine._ My name is Mary Ellen. So _boring.”_

 

“Nice to meet you, Mary Ellen.”

 

()()()()()()

 

Friday

 

August 15, 1969

Bethel, New York

Woodstock Music Festival

3pm

 

Darcy is thanking God that she still had her combat boots in the trunk of her car as they trudge a mile through the muddy field to get closer to the stage. It’s raining again and the funk of marijuana smoke hangs over the crowd. Her braided hair is plastered to her head but the seething mass of young people fairly radiate positivity so she can’t seem to mind. 

 

Nobody should be this happy to stand in a muddy field in the middle of August. 

 

_It’s probably the drugs._

 

Mary Ellen skips ahead, her cousin trailing behind her, only pausing to take a deep hit off of a proffered joint. 

 

“Thanks man,” she chirps to the bedraggled young man who handed it to her and passes it to Sarah, who takes a hit, gives Darcy a questioning look and hands it back when she shakes her head _no_. He looks as if he may have slept in the field overnight, bleary eyed with his sleeping bag wrapped half hazardously around him.

 

Darcy sighs. 

 

It isn’t until around 8pm towards the end of a set by a band called Sweetwater that they finally locate Mary Ellen’s brother. Jimmy is a tall, muscular young man who looks to be in his late 20’s and is working backstage security.

 

“Jimmy!” Mary Ellen shouts when she gets to the barrier blocking the crowds from the backstage area and she waves her hands in the air.

 

He spots her and ambles over, pushing a few strands of his beautiful wavy, shoulder length blond hair back from his forehead and smiling, his teeth even and white in his suntanned face. “You made it! How’d ya manage? Mom and Dad said you couldn’t come.”

 

Darcy shoots Mary Ellen a sharp look and the bubbly blonde unrepentantly grins.

 

“It’s all cool. I left a note and called them from a gas station to let them know I found a ride.”

 

His eyes move to Sarah, “What about you?”

 

The brunette’s shoulders hunch a little and she shrugs, “Mom probably hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet. She has a new boyfriend.”

 

Jimmy brow wrinkles with concern but it quickly smoothes out and he sighs, “Right.”

 

His bright blue eyes focus on her and he says, “Who’s this?”

 

“Beth Grant,” she says, stepping forward and offering him her hand, “I picked these two up outside of Philadelphia.”

 

He nods firmly and takes her hand in his much larger one and gently shakes. “Jim Davis, nice to meet ya. Thanks for looking out for these two,” he says and let’s her hand go to ruffle his sister’s hair.

 

“Hey!” Mary Ellen cries, pushing his hand away and smoothing her hair.

 

Jimmy smirks and gestures for them to follow him, “Come on, let me get ya some passes and I’ll show you around.”

 

_Things she learned at Woodstock:_

 

_Stunningly, it’s possible for 500,000 people to gather without violence._

 

_Hippies have no shame about being naked in public._

 

_Marijuana doesn’t work for long on her but while it does it’s fun and relaxing. Probably why everyone at the festival gets along for the most part, too._

 

_Do not eat or drink anything offered for free. An astounding number of people were unexpectedly hallucinating after drinking the free Kool Aid being handed out. Fortunately she could smell it was off and dumped it._

 

_Unfortunately, Mary Ellen downed two cups before Darcy could warn her._

 

_Based on her observations, it’s probably best if she stays away from acid or magic mushrooms._

 

_One toilet for every 800 people is not enough. Marijuana and patchouli weren’t the only odors wafting around by the end of the first day._

 

_Keep your damn shoes on. Sarah stepped on some glass and Darcy ended up taking her over to the severely understaffed medical tent to get it cleaned and bandaged. Turns out they weren’t expecting such a big crowd—they were prepared for 50,000 people and ten times that number showed up. She ended up staying to help after she pulled out her dog tags and wallet from her backpack to prove she was actually a trained nurse. Which was news to the girls, who goggled at her when she pulled out the tags._

 

 _“_ I thought you were maybe a year or two older than us,” Mary Ellen said. 

 

“I’m older than I look,” Darcy replied.

 

_Joe Cocker was amazing. His Sunday afternoon performance put chills down her spine._

 

_Santana made her want to dance. So she did, with Jimmy, backstage._

 

_Whoever planned the festival was woefully unprepared. Food ran out by the middle of Saturday. The vendors raised their prices from 25 cents per hotdog to a dollar since demand was high and some festival goers responded by burning down the concession stand._

 

_There also wasn’t enough water to drink either, unless you opened your mouth during a downpour. Though, there was plenty of electric Kool Aid._

 

_The Grateful Dead weren’t very good. But she cut them some slack because they performed in the rain and it appeared they were getting shocked by the microphones._

 

_500,000 people create an awful lot of garbage._

 

_She’s glad she stopped at the gas station for extra film for her camera._

 

_Jim Davis was an excellent kisser, amongst other things._

 

She stays until Monday morning, until the last performance ends. 

 

Jimi Hendrix (whom she met backstage and found to be a soft spoken, slightly awkward young man) took the time to show her how to play a few chords on his guitar before taking the stage and making music come from the instrument like she’s never heard before. It’s remarkable. 

 

By then, much of the crowd had dissipated, worn down by the lack of food, the constant mud, and lack of bathroom facilities. She, Mary Ellen, and Sarah were fortunate to stay with Jimmy in a tent he’d pitched to the rear of the stage, past the buses and trailers the entertainment and stage crew came in. They have access to food and water, and Darcy certainly is no stranger to wandering off behind a bush to use the bathroom.

 

At 10am on Monday morning, she kisses Jimmy goodbye for awhile before leaving the girls in his capable hands and heading to New York City.

  
  
[Brooklyn in the 60’s](https://allthatsinteresting.com/brooklyn-1960s-photos)

[Woodstock was cool but kind of gross too](https://www.grunge.com/123016/messed-up-things-woodstock/)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter! Let me know what you think.
> 
> Many thanks to all of you who have left kudos and comments. You truly inspire me to continue, even when it’s difficult to find time to do so.
> 
> I will eventually answer comments. Hopefully. Maybe. Just know I read every single one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard and Maria have good news, Will and Tony receive bad news. They and Darcy decide to travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta  
> All errors are mine.  
> Marvel’s sandbox, I just play in it. Sigh.
> 
> Warning: character death

Saturday

November 15, 1969

Iowa 

1pm

 

Darcy is leaning against the counter in the kitchen double checking her grocery list when the phone rings. She absently walks across the room and picks up the receiver, “Hello,” she mutters as she steps over to the counter, stretching the cord to it’s limit and hunching her shoulder to hold the receiver against her ear. She frowns and adds _cornstarch,_ then _cinnamon_ to her list.

 

“Hey Darce, have you seen the news?” Will says.

 

“Hello to you too, dear brother. No, I have not,” she says dryly.

 

“Turn on the TV, it’s on all the stations.”

 

“ _Alright_.” 

 

She turns on the small black and white TV she keeps on the kitchen counter, adjusting the antenna until the picture clears. It takes a few minutes, reception is terrible in the country. 

 

A news reporter is standing in front of a huge crowd.

 

“An estimated half a million protesters have gathered across from the White House for Moratorium Day to protest the conflict in Vietnam. Various artists are performing today including Pete Seeger, Leonard Bernstein, John Denver, Peter, Paul, and Mary, and Arlo Guthrie.”

 

Scenes from earlier in the day show Abbie Hoffman gesticulating wildly at the podium, shouting. The commentators voice over describes Hoffman’s heated and profanity laced diatribe against the war.

 

“You see it?” Will says, “I thought you might be interested, what with going to _Woodstock_ and all.”

 

Darcy chuckles, “I recognize that guy, Abbie Hoffman,” she says, “he rushed the stage when The Who were playing at Woodstock then Pete Townshend hit him with his guitar and knocked him off the stage.”

 

It was a rare violent moment during the music festival. Sure, Hoffman interrupted their set and grabbed the microphone to shout about the Vietnam war, but he didn’t deserve to get knocked off the stage, in her opinion. 

 

Pete Townshend seemed like kind of a jerk.

 

“The what?” Will says.

 

“ _The Who,”_ she says, “they’re a popular band, from England. Pete Townshend is the guitarist.”

 

Will grumbles, “I feel old as hell.”

 

Darcy laughs.

 

“You aren’t old, idiot,” she says affectionately. “So you guys will be here by the 25th?”

 

Will and Tony are joining her for Thanksgiving in Iowa this year. She’s planning on flying to California for Christmas—they’re staying at the place in Carmel until after New Years.

 

“Yeah, we will,” he says, his voice becoming serious, “but, uh—we’re gonna have to leave a bit earlier than planned. Tony has a doctors appointment on Monday that I don’t want him to miss.”

 

“Doctors appointment? Anything serious?” she asks, worried.

 

“Oh no,” he says, attempting a breezy tone but she hears the thread of worry in his voice, “he’s just been really run down and hasn’t been sleeping well, he’s lost a little weight too—he hasn’t been eating enough. I forced the stubborn ass to make an appointment just to check on things. We aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

 

“So you keep reminding me. You’ll let me know if it’s anything serious?”

 

“Of course.” She hears the sound of papers rustling on the other end and Will sighs. He continues, “Hey, here’s some good news. Don’t tell anybody—Maria is pregnant. Howard said they aren’t telling everybody yet because they’ve had several miscarriages and they want to wait til she’s through the first trimester.”

 

Darcy squeals, “Oh my _god._ Can you imagine Howard as a daddy?”

 

Will laughs, “Frankly, no.”

 

()()()()()()

 

Sunday

December 7, 1969

Iowa 

9:30pm

 

“Darce,” Will says when she answers the phone, his voice sounding oddly strained.

 

She sits up straight in her bed, tossing the book she’d been reading aside.

 

She presses the receiver to her ear and says, “What is it?”

 

“It’s Tony—the doctors wanna do exploratory surgery to figure out what’s wrong with him.”

 

“When?”

 

“Tuesday,” he says dully, “They think—“ his voice catches and drops to a whisper, “they think maybe it’s cancer.”

 

She leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes for a moment, gathering herself. Tony had been tired and thin and picked at his food on Thanksgiving. He’d waved off her concern, saying it was just stress. 

 

_He hadn’t smelled right._

 

She inhales and exhales slowly before she says calmly, “Don’t panic darling, it’s early days yet.”

 

“But—it could be,” he says, his voice strangled, “It—“

 

“Shhhh. Don’t think it. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

 

()()()()()()

 

Wednesday 

December 10, 1969

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center

Los Angeles, California

4pm

 

Will grips her hand tightly as they sit beside Tony’s hospital bed and listen to the doctor explain what they’d found during the exploratory surgery.

 

Tony is silent for once, his face blank with shock as the words _multiple tumors_ and _late stage cancer_ flow from the doctor’s lips like a suffocating gas, squeezing the air from the room.

 

Will’s fingers grip hers harder and harder before he eventually lets go and in a rare show of affection in front of a relative stranger he lays his hand over Tony’s hand where it limply rests on the hospital bed. The doctor’s eyes track the gesture and flick towards her and she calmly returns his curious gaze.

 

The doctor finishes his explanation of what they’d found and looks around at each of them, silent in their shock. He clears his throat and says, “Do you have any questions for me?”

 

Will glances at her and raises an eyebrow and she quietly says, “What are the treatment options,” knowing in her heart that whatever they can offer will only prolong the inevitable. _Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Tumors in his liver, possibly his spleen—incurable._

 

The doctor bows his head for a moment, rubbing his fingers nervously along the clipboard clutched in his hands.

 

“We can manage pain as it happens, this type of cancer is often caught late because it’s virtually asymptomatic until later stages,” the doctor clears his throat and says, “If the tumor growth were limited to the pancreas and not too large we could attempt surgical removal. That is not the case in this instance. I’m truly sorry,” he pauses and Darcy looks at Tony who’s usually mobile face is still frozen in shock, though his dark eyes well with tears.

 

“How long?” Tony says hoarsely.

 

“Pardon?” The doctor says.

 

“ _How long do I have?”_ he grits out from between clenched teeth.

 

The doctor sighs, “It’s hard to say—three months? Maybe six? I cannot give you a definite number. Every patient is different,” he grimaces, clearly uncomfortable with the question, “I’m sorry—I’ll leave you to discuss this with your loved ones.”

 

He nods to Will and Darcy before exiting the room.

 

As soon as the doctor leaves the room Will wraps both of his hands around one of Tony’s, cradling it between his shaking fingers and bringing it to his lips to kiss.

 

“Tony— _baby,”_ he chokes out, his grief palpable. Darcy stands by Tony’s feet, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to find some comfort.

 

Tony looks dully at his lap, his face drawn. 

 

“I can’t believe this,” he whispers. “It was just a little stomach ache,” he lifts his dark eyes to look at Will and gasps, “it was just a _stomach ache—_ and now I’m _dying.”_

 

He looks wildly around the room, his gaze settling on Darcy, “ _How?_ How did we get here?”

 

“I don’t know—” she reaches for his blanket covered foot and wraps her hands around it to squeeze gently, “I don’t know. But we’re with you, no matter what you need.”

 

He looks at her silently before sighing and turning his head on the pillow to look towards the window. It faces west, the last rays of sunlight outline the trees in the park across the street and the sky is striated with clouds like thin ribbons which glow gloriously gold and pink in the light of the setting sun.

 

“I want to leave this hospital as soon as possible,” he says quietly, raising his hand to stroke Will’s coppery hair, now threaded with silver, as it rests against the side of the bed, “there are still things to be done and I refuse to unnecessarily spend any more minutes of my life in places like this.”

 

Will turns his face towards her and nods, his cheeks wet with tears.

 

“Whatever you want,” she says softly.

 

Two days later Tony is released from the hospital and Howard tells them to use Carmel house for as long as they want, they’d planned on doing Christmas there, anyway.

 

Tony requests that no one tell his sister Maria about the cancer. He doesn’t want her to have any additional stress while she’s pregnant, she’s waited too long for this pregnancy.

 

Tony and Maria’s father had passed away ten years ago and their mother two years after. At the time of their father’s passing, Maria had been 21 and married to the son of one of her father’s wealthy business associates and at the center of New York high society. She was much younger than Tony so they hadn’t been close when she was small, and later, when she was older, Tony’s relationship with his parents had grown strained again when they’d finally realized he was gay, living with Will in California, and extremely unlikely to ever marry one of the society daughters they continued to throw at him. It wasn’t until after their mother passed away that he and Maria were able to really build their relationship and take a true interest in each other’s lives. 

 

Maria had tried for years with her first husband to get pregnant and was never successful. Her husband blamed her though it was never substantiated by any medical professional, and it eventually stressed their marriage to the point where they’d divorced, despite the scandal it caused. 

 

She’d leaned on Tony a great deal during this time and came out to California often to get away from some of the worst gossip in the year following the divorce. This is when Howard came into her orbit and he became _very_ interested.

 

Maria is twenty years younger than Howard. She knows the movers and shakers in New York and despite her scandalous status as a divorcée has many connections, in addition to inherited wealth from her family and alimony from her first husband. 

 

And she’s beautiful. Very beautiful.

 

She has large dark eyes like her brother and a fine boned, elegant body. Curly chestnut brown hair and even white teeth in a wide dimpled smile complete the picture. She is extroverted and enjoys parties and social events, dresses beautifully, and is often featured about town in the New York society pages. 

 

Howard was almost instantly smitten.

 

They’d married nearly two years ago.

 

There have been two miscarriages, but they refused to give up. Maria was determined, especially as Howard’s concerns about his legacy had grown with each passing year, especially once he hit fifty years of age.

 

Finally, success. 

 

Howard treats Maria like she’s made of glass, so very careful of her in her pregnant state. Tony is much the same way, very protective of his sister. 

 

She, Will, and Tony have a quiet Christmas in Carmel, Howard and Maria spend the holidays in New York. On Christmas, Will and Tony ask her to coordinate with Tony’s physicians and set herself up as his personal nurse and she readily agrees, though she has to change her appearance again if she is going to spend much time in California.

 

Her primary function will be to help Tony with pain management. So far, he’s okay. But not too far in the future it will become an issue.

 

Tony announces on New Years that he’s decided he wants to travel until he’s too unwell to do so. 

 

There are places he’d like to see before he dies.

 

()()()()()()

 

January 10, 1970

Cairo, Egypt

Mena Hotel

6am

 

Darcy sits at the small table on the balcony of Tony and Will’s room, sipping the strong sweet coffee room service has provided. Coffee in Egypt is served three ways: sweet, sweeter, and very sweet. 

 

A stray thought— _Bucky would have loved it—_ whispers through her mind.

 

It’s early enough that the city is just beginning to stir, not yet close to the raucousness typical of Cairo from 7am until late in the evening, the primary sounds are the clink of silverware and coffee cups meeting saucers from other hotel balconies, the murmur of voices from the grounds below as workers move about, and the splash of water from the bathroom as Will does his morning ablutions. 

 

The soft droning sound of prayer had awakened her before sunrise as all over the city Muslims chanted the _fajir_ (dawn) prayer, first of five times they would pray throughout the day. 

 

It’s cool, only around 52 degrees, perhaps it will be in the mid 60’s today. Fortunately, the sun is warm on the balcony but even so, Tony is swathed in the warm woolen shawl she’d picked up from a street vendor yesterday and wrapped around him before they’d set up on the balcony.

 

The pyramids loom on the horizon, golden in the early morning light—a monument to human ingenuity and imagination. 

 

_Also to their fear of dying and being forgotten._

 

Tony sighs beside her, his dark eyes scanning the grounds then beyond.

 

“I’ve always wanted to see them in person you know,” he says wistfully.

 

“Me too. Thanks for suggesting this—I never would have thought to come to Egypt,” she says.

 

It had required Peggy pulling a few strings to get travel visas since it’s been challenging in recent years for foreigners of the western persuasion to enter the country.

 

He takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly at its sweetness. Tony likes his coffee black but in Egypt black coffee is considered appropriate only in times of sorrow.

 

She pushes the serving plate with boiled eggs, falafel, and _ful medames,_ a dish with fava beans cooked with tomatoes, onions, various vegetables, lemon and spices towards him. It’s delicious, but maybe a bit too spicy for Tony’s stomach right now because he chooses two boiled eggs and a couple falafel.

 

She nods approvingly as he takes a bite of egg and he rolls his eyes, half irritated and half appreciative of her mother henning.

 

Will steps out on the balcony and stretches his arms above his head as he takes in the view. 

 

“Wow. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he says wryly as he sits down and pours himself some of the sweet coffee, he leans in to kiss Tony’s cheek and whispers, “Alright today, darling?”

 

Tony nods in the affirmative, patting Will’s hand distractedly as he takes a bite of falafel.

 

It’s a good day when Tony feels like eating.

 

Later, God willing, they will tour the pyramids.

 

()()()()()()

 

February 20, 1970

Athens, Greece

The Parthenon on the Acropolis of Athens

2pm

 

Thanks to the stronger painkillers and the insulin his doctor prescribed for his newly developed diabetes, ( _Jesus Christ_ , enough already) Tony is having a good day—almost pain free.

 

Darcy and Will stick close, ready to steady him as they walk through the ancient ruins of the Acropolis and ascend slowly to the Parthenon, which is at the apex of the hill. 

 

He thinks he’ll be okay though.

 

They stop often to sit and rest, to enjoy the feeling of the sun on their faces and the beauty of the ruins around them.

 

Darcy has her camera out, constantly taking pictures of the temples, bone white against the blue sky. Most of all, he knows she wants to make sure to have plenty of pictures of he and Will together for when he’s gone.

 

_For when he’s gone._

 

Strange thinking of that, though it shouldn’t be, really. He’d naively thought his brush with death during the war would be enough to provide protection from further tragedy, as if he’d paid the toll and was somehow safe.

 

_Lies._

 

He should have remembered that life is not fair. 

 

But still—today is beautiful, the sun is out and they are in Athens, a place he’d always wanted to visit. It’s likely he never would have if not for the impetus of his impending death.

 

Will’s hand brushes against his as they walk and he leans into him, inhaling the familiar scent of him as he takes his arm. He doesn’t really need the support, he’s feeling surprisingly fine, (the pain pills make him a bit loopy but it’s _okay)_ he just wants to be close.

 

He and Will have rarely had a day apart for more than twenty years. He never wanted to be anywhere without him, but now— _now—_ well. 

 

He’s not sure where he’ll go when he dies, he’s just sorry Will won’t be with him.

 

After the numb disbelief over his diagnosis had passed, he’d been angry. 

 

Resentful.

 

He lashed out at Darcy in particular. Her deceptively youthful face is a blunt reminder of the painfully short span of his life in comparison. Of anyone’s life in comparison, really.

 

He’d been mean. 

 

Much like when he’d lost his leg, he is frustrated and embarrassed to ask for help. Darcy is the only person who can sense his needs and act without him asking. He should be grateful for that, but he finds himself jealous of her.

 

He had muttered under his breath when he _knew_ she could hear him, _it must be nice to never get sick—to never grow old._

 

She’d paused as she packed his medicines and pain flickered briefly in her blue eyes before her expression smoothed out again, her focus quickly returning to her work.

 

In that moment, his bitterness shifted to shame.

 

She can’t help it.

 

None of this is her fault and she’s only ever been kind to him. Besides, she’s lost so much. What good is living forever if you end up alone?

 

He, at least, has been lucky enough to have Will all these years. 

 

Fuck death.

 

Fuck it all.

 

His stomach mercifully hasn’t rebelled against the spanakopita he’d had for lunch and he is with the love of his life in Athens.

 

Darcy skips ahead of them and turns to hold the camera up, her dark curls stirring in the breeze, and says brightly, “Smile boys!” 

 

He leans into Will’s side and smiles.

 

It’s a good day.

 

()()()()()()

 

April 5, 1970

South Rim

The Grand Canyon, Arizona

 

Will stoops to pick up a rock by his feet, stands and launches it over the edge to watch it fall until it’s out of sight. He whistles low and mutters under his breath, “ _Holy shit.”_

 

Darcy stands beside Tony, her arm firmly wrapped around his. His leg made it rough going as they hiked from the road to the overlook, but she’d made sure to hold him steady. 

 

They aren’t too far from the edge and it’s a long way down.

 

“Why didn’t we ever stop here before?” Darcy wonders aloud.

 

They had traveled Route 66 out from California numerous times to go home to Iowa, but had never stopped when they’d passed close by the canyon. This time, they’re driving from New York to California in the ‘68 Lincoln Continental Howard had loaned them because Tony wants to “see America before he croaks.”

 

Tony has also taken to gleefully saying uncomfortable things about cancer and dying, just to watch people flounder with shock.

 

When they were at a diner called The Midpoint Cafe in Texas a few days ago, he’d sadly asked for an extra scoop of ice cream on his pie— _because he was dying from cancer._

 

She was happy he had an appetite and ignored his comment but Will had slouched down in the booth and muttered, “Tony— _behave_ ,” when the flustered waitress had returned swiftly with the ice cream much to Tony’s satisfaction.

 

Tony shrugs, “Dunno, guess we were always in a hurry to get somewhere else.”

 

Darcy gazes over the rock formations, striated in pale gold, rust, and sandy brown, and along the rim of the canyon to the view over the edge. The walls were formed by thousands of years of the Colorado river cutting through the landscape and now it streams past a mile below. The edge of the canyon is so high above the bottom of it that they can see vultures circling _below_ them.

 

“We should have stopped,” she says, lifting her hair off her sweaty neck. It was near 70 at mid day but the day had started off cold and her coat is making her too warm.

 

She unbuttons it and flaps the sides a little to cool off. Tony watches her with amusement, seemingly unfazed by the heat despite the warm scarf she’d wrapped around his neck this morning.

 

She supposes it’s hard for him to keep warm these days. He’s lost more weight.

 

They’d arrived in New York in mid March and stayed for a week so Tony could see a doctor Howard had recommended and get an update on his condition.

 

 _“Big news, I‘m still dying,”_ he’d quipped upon exiting the doctors office.

 

He’s increasingly tired and in pain. When they arrive in Malibu, it will be the end of their travels.

 

He had finally told Maria his diagnosis when they’d arrived in New York and she was devastated and angry he’d waited so long to tell her. Will said Tony had explained that he needed to come to terms with it himself before he could tell her. 

 

He didn’t mention his concern about the pregnancy because he knew she’d somehow feel at fault. She plans on having the baby in California and is currently there until some time after the birth.

 

He’d also formally resigned from Stark Industries when they’d returned from Greece. Prior to that, Howard had told people in the New York and California branches of Stark Industries that he was working on a project overseas.

 

Will is on a leave of absence, though Tony keeps telling him he should resume work when they get back to California, at least part-time. He says he doesn’t need constant supervision—he has Darcy after all. 

 

She stays out of it. Will and Tony will work out their plans without her input.

 

Tony sighs and she can tell he’s beginning to hurt.

 

“Why don’t we walk back to the car? I’m starting to get hungry, we could go to that cafe we saw near the motel?” She says.

 

Will turns and narrows his green eyes at Tony before sending a questioning gaze her way. She nods infinitesimally and he steps to Tony’s side, taking his other arm.

 

“That sounds like a plan,” he says.

 

“You’re always hungry,” Tony grumbles to Darcy, “we could stay a little longer,” but leans into Will tiredly as they start back to the car.

 

()()()()()()

 

April 7, 1970

Mojave Desert, California

9pm

 

They are about 75 miles outside of Needles, driving through the desert in the deep darkness one can only find far from any town or city. The moon is high and full, casting it’s pale glow over the landscape blurring by. Darcy is at the wheel, singing softly along with the Johnny Cash 8-track she’d shoved into the player almost 10 minutes ago. Will sits beside her, his hands tapping out the beat on his knees.

 

“ _I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time, I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine, I walk the line…”_ She sings, humming through the next stanza and stopping altogether when Will asks, “When’s the last time we’ve been dancing?”

 

Tony is stretched out in the back seat, a pillow beneath his head and one of the warm shawls she’d picked up in Egypt draped over him. He’d taken something for pain about two hours ago and soon after his soft snores drifted from behind them.

 

“Mmmm, I dunno,” she thinks on it a second, “1965? You and Tony came to visit me in Boston for Christmas and we went out on New Year’s.”

 

“Huh,” he says, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable. “Kids don’t dance the way we did anymore.”

 

She chuckles, “No, not really.”

 

“I miss it—though I don’t think my old back could take some of the stuff we used to do,” he sighs.

 

“Sure ya could,” she says softly and he shakes his head and leans it back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

 

 _He’s probably right._ He’ll be 52 in July.

 

After about 15 minutes, there’s a snort from the back seat and Tony sits up. She glances in the rear view mirror to see him run a hand through his salt and pepper colored hair before squinting with mild confusion out the window.

 

Will turns in his seat to say, “Done napping, sleeping beauty?”

 

“For now,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep. “Where are we?”

 

“Oh, uh—“ Will says, glancing at Darcy and raising an eyebrow in question.

 

“About midway between Needles and Barstow,” she answers, “we should probably find a motel in Barstow—we don’t have enough gas to get back to Malibu tonight.”

 

Tony hums in affirmation and the leather upholstery squeaks as he shifts around to get comfortable. 

 

After a while, he interrupts Johnny Cash singing “A Boy named Sue” to say, “Hey, Darce? Could ya pull over—I gotta piss.”

 

“Damn, you’re sure smooth when you first wake up,” she says, slowing the car and pulling over to the side of the road. 

 

Will declares he needs to go too but she knows he mostly wants to keep an eye on Tony and make sure he doesn’t lose his balance on the rough ground along the side of the road.

 

Johnny Cash’s voice fades into silence as Will and Tony get out and stretch. She hears footsteps in the roadside gravel and chortles quietly as she glances behind her to see the two of them standing a little ways from the road, pissing side by side.

 

_Men are so strange._

 

She hears the rasp of zippers and footsteps and glances out the window again to see they have moved a few feet away, their backs to her and heads tipped up to the sky. Will has his arm wrapped around Tony’s slight form and they are whispering to each other.

 

“So many stars,” Tony says, his voice wistful, “they’re so clear out here.”

 

“Yeah,” Will says.

 

“I read somewhere that the light of distant stars travels billions of years to reach us. Think of that. I guess light can theoretically go on forever—it never dies.”

 

“Never, huh?” Will whispers, his voice breaking.

 

“Never,” Tony confirms.

 

Her eyes well up with tears as Will wraps his arms around Tony and holds him close.

 

She sniffs, blinking rapidly before leaning forward to restart the 8 track.

 

()()()()()()

 

May 19, 1970

Malibu, California

Will and Tony’s house

 

Tony dies in the afternoon, with the sun on his face and the sweet scent from the lemon trees in the yard drifting through the open window.

 

When he’d gotten so weak he barely left the hospital bed they’d moved into the guest room (at Tony’s insistence, “ _Love, you hardly sleep with me in the same room, up at all hours. Besides, I don’t want to die in our bed. I want you to remember the happy times.”)_ he'd asked them to move it closer to the window so he could have a view. 

 

Darcy had dragged it over to the window herself, with Tony in it, before Will even got up from his chair.

 

In the past weeks, Tony has updated his will and more recently expressed his wishes for his funeral. 

 

_“No coffins, darling. I cannot stand the idea of people looking at my corpse. Have me cremated. Spread my ashes in the ocean, bury some under the lemon trees in the yard, keep me in an urn if you want. I don’t care. Just don’t bury me,” he shudders theatrically, “it’s too grim to contemplate.”_

 

Eventually, they settle on a plot in at Forest Lawn Cemetery in the Hollywood Hills. It’s a ridiculous place, very California. Of course, Tony would want his ashes deposited in a place that features the largest historical mosaic in the United States, a replica of Boston’s Old North Church, and a 16 foot bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln.

 

Up until the last week of his life there were occasional visitors during the day, often Maria would come and Darcy would make herself scarce to protect her identity, and again if it was someone who knew her from her old life. 

 

Howard sometimes stopped by in the evening and had paid to get a phone line installed (Will hadn’t bothered arguing about it) in Tony’s sickroom so he or Maria could call to talk to Tony if they couldn’t come in person. 

 

Flowers and cards litter most of the flat surfaces in the house—Tony is well loved.

 

During the last days he mostly slept, the I.V. in his arm providing fluids and nutrients he could no longer eat and morphine to dull the pain. A catheter was placed because he could no longer get out of bed to use the bathroom. 

 

Eventually they’d unplugged the phone on the bedside table and informed Howard and Maria that Tony needed to rest without interruption. 

 

Privately, Darcy had told Howard it would not be long and to get Maria out to the house to say goodbye. She does her best to prepare Will for the end and keeps a sharp eye on her charge, assuring Tony’s comfort as much as possible.

 

Mercifully, Will, who looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him, was able to rest. 

 

She sent him off to bed late each evening armed with the knowledge she would alert him immediately to any changes. She was so attuned to Tony’s heartbeat and respiration, the very sound of the blood in his veins—she would know when the tide had turned.

 

On his last day, hours before dawn, Darcy sits in the chair beside Tony’s bed, the only sounds in the room his slow breathing, the clicking of her knitting needles as she works on a long scarf made from the softest bottle green cashmere she’d discovered at an outdoor market in Paris, and the chirp of crickets outside the window in the dark.

 

Tony had been surprisingly lucid yesterday afternoon, laughing at the stories of their travels he and Will shared with Maria and Howard when they visited and even eating a few small bites of the gingerbread cookies she’d made after dinner.

 

He’d fallen asleep early though, only waking briefly around 10pm when his morphine started to wear off before losing consciousness again.

 

She focuses on her stitches, only looking up when a sudden increase in Tony’s heart rate and a change in his breathing indicates he’s awake. She looks up to find his head turned towards her on the white pillowcase, his dark eyes intent.

 

She sets down her knitting needles and leans forward to touch his hand where it’s pressed against the patchwork quilt. She says softly, “Hello, darling. Do you need anything?”

 

Tony’s brow wrinkles for a moment in thought, he clears his throat and says, “No, no. I don’t think so. What time is it?”

 

Darcy glances at her watch, “3am.”

 

“Ahh. Early then,” he’s silent for a few moments, his gaze caught by the gauzy curtains billowing in the cool breeze from the window.

 

“Do you need another blanket?” She asks.

 

“Oh, I’m fine. Say, maybe put a record on?” He gestures to the player across the room.

 

“Sure,” she says, standing and placing her knitting in the basket next to the chair.

 

“What d’ya want to hear?”

 

She shuffles through the box of records next to the player.

 

“Bing Crosby, there should be a couple of his singles in there. “Only Forever”, he says.

 

She finds the record and removes it from it’s dust jacket, carefully placing it on the turntable and dropping the needle onto the A side.

 

The singer’s rich voice floods the room and Darcy returns to her knitting as the record plays.

 

_Do I want to be with you_

_As the years come and go?_

_Only forever_

_If you care to know_

 

_Would I grant all your wishes_

_And be proud of the task_

_Only forever_

_If someone should ask_

 

“This song was playing when I first danced with Will,” Tony says, as the song continues.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, it was at a bar not far from the docks—queer bar mostly, we had our places,” he smirks.

 

She nods.

 

He smiles, the vestiges of his former beauty shining through the ravages from his illness. He continues, “He asked me to dance. I felt like my heart would burst he was so handsome.”

 

She nods, “Will’s a looker alright, coulda been in pictures.”

 

“Yeah,” he says dreamily, his eyes going unfocused he listens to the music, before  drifting slowly closed.

 

The song ends, the crackly sound of the needle scratching across the surface filling the room before the it automatically lifts and the arm swings slowly back to where it started.

 

The record spins soundlessly on.

 

She rises to turn it off and comes back to her seat to start knitting again. After a few moments, she glances at Tony and is surprised to find his dark eyes open, his face filled with a peculiar sadness.

 

“What is it?” She whispers.

 

He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “I’ve been jealous of you, you know. I’d look at you and see your unchanging face and it made me feel resentful. Now though—I feel sorry. You’ll always be in that chair, and someone else will be in this bed. What you have is a great gift, but also a great curse.”

 

Darcy’s hands tighten around her knitting needles, before she drops them in her lap.

 

She merely nods, there’s really nothing to say—it’s the truth.

 

Tony grimaces and shifts to make himself more comfortable.

 

“I’m sorry, darling,” he sighs, “the morphine makes me say things I shouldn’t—I’m tired.”

 

She stands and lifts the blankets to cover his shoulders, pausing to smooth a hand over his hair. His lips tip into a gentle smile and he murmurs, “Thanks, love.”

 

His eyes close and he drifts off to sleep.

 

()()()()()()

 

Maria gives birth to a son on May 29th. 

 

They decide to name him Anthony, in memory of his uncle.

 

Late that night, Will and Darcy stand in the maternity ward with Howard, gazing  through the viewing window at the hospital nursery as a nurse lifts a squalling baby Stark from his bassinet, turning him in her arms for them to see.

 

Howard grins, passing each of them a cigar before lighting his and puffing on it.

 

Darcy twirls the cigar between her fingers, her eyes on the tiny red faced baby who has yet to stop crying. 

 

“Kid’s got strong lungs,” Howard says proudly, holding out his lighter to Will’s cigar. 

 

“He sure does,” Will says wearily, holding his cigar by his side and letting it smolder ( _When is the last time he slept? Tony’s loss is so fresh.) “_ Congratulations, Howard.”

 

Howard moves closer to the window and taps lightly on the glass. He sighs, and says quietly, “My son. _Who’d have thought?_ I have great plans for you.”

 

Darcy glances at Will and he raises his eyebrow at her and she shrugs in return.

 

_Oh boy._

 

[History of cancer treatment](https://www.cancer.org/cancer/cancer-basics/history-of-cancer/cancer-treatment-surgery.html)

[Hotel in Egypt](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marriott_Mena_House_Hotel)

[Coffee in Egypt](https://bunaa.de/en/egypt/)

[Views from the South rim of the Grand Canyon](https://www.earthtrekkers.com/best-south-rim-viewpoints-grand-canyon/)

[What’s an 8 track?](https://www.retrothing.com/2013/08/8-track-tape-rewind.html)

[Tony’s final resting place](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forest_Lawn_Memorial_Park_\(Hollywood_Hills\))

[Bing Crosby song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DXIRkT_u7J0)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, gentle readers. Writing this was slow torture due to the content as well as all the research rabbit holes I fell down. Hope it doesn’t disappoint.
> 
> Rumor has it, Pete Townshend did hit Abbie Hoffman with his guitar and knocked him off the stage. Shrug.
> 
> I’ll miss Tony. But I always knew Tony Stark was named for his uncle and I actually let him live longer than in the comics. From what I read, Maria named Tony after her brother Antonio who died young. I considered killing him in WW2 but I couldn’t do it. 
> 
> Especially after Bucky and Steve. 
> 
> In researching cancer treatments, I found there really wasn’t much in the way of treatment back in 1970. Like, startlingly little. The radiation treatments they had weren’t very targeted and caused more problems and chemotherapy was still in research mode and not commonly used. Pancreatic cancer, even with today’s treatments, is pretty much a death sentence. It becomes a matter of extending the patient’s life rather than being able to stop it altogether. 
> 
> Someday, a cure will be found. I know it.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy, Will, and friends in the 70’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta. Sorry for the long wait friends, I can’t seem to churn out more than a thousand words a week and it never feels like a real chapter to me unless it tops 4000. Next chapter will come as fast as I can write it, I can’t seem to get ahead of this story but I’ll try.

May 5, 1975

Stark Industries, R & D Lab

Manhattan, New York

 

Darcy unwraps a Tootsie pop from the secret stash in the bottom left drawer of Will’s desk and sticks it in her mouth, leaning back in his desk chair to spin in circles as she awaits his arrival. 

 

She’d come over from her place in the Village to meet him for lunch as was her habit on Wednesdays. It’s a day off from the record store where she’s been working while she takes classes at NYU. They are the types of classes she’d missed out on because of her focus on medicine. 

 

Literature, poetry, history classes. Art classes. Anything that took her fancy really. 

 

The record store is fun too. She loves listening to all the new music and has been steadily adding to her record collection. It’s close to NYU and attracts a lot of young people. She considers the time she spends there as research for her next identity, learning about current trends and slang is key.

 

She and Will take dance classes on Saturday afternoons at an Arthur Murray School that had opened on 5th Avenue. The advent of Disco has made social dancing popular again and they have fun learning new dances together.

 

Will is still very handsome and looks younger than his age, but she looks far younger. He was careful to introduce her as his cousin to everyone. He muttered, “ _ I don’t like people thinking I’m a dirty old man,”  _ he smirked, “ _ unless you were a pretty young man then I might be okay with it.” _

 

She’d decided to live near Will in New York after he’d moved from the West Coast. At first, she’d worked at a hospital in Boston, taking a train to New York to visit Will as often as she could. But after two years she’d grown tired of it. She missed Will, and he was still recovering from losing Tony.

 

She’s rich. Her investments have only grown over time and she’d bought quite a bit of Stark Industry stock when Howard went public. She doesn’t even have to work at this point, but she likes to be busy, it brings structure and purpose to her days. Sometimes she thinks about being a professional student, there are so many things she’d like to learn.

 

She’s been thinking about retiring her current identity and she’d like to age down to 19 or 20. Maybe finally go to med school? But it’s  _ still  _ difficult for women to get into programs. They attract a lot of attention when they do. Something she tries to avoid. 

 

She’ll have to make a decision soon, the birthdate on Elizabeth Grant’s birth certificate makes her 39 and she doesn’t want to go through the steps she’d taken last time to hold onto her identity into her 40’s. 

 

The unflattering hairstyle and padding around her middle had gotten old pretty fast. 

Will takes care to introduce her as a second cousin so her remarkable resemblance to someone who’s supposed to be dead could be rationalized in the unlikely event she runs into a former colleague. 

 

Thankfully, people tend to believe the easiest explanation over the fantastical.

 

It’s also fortunate that she hasn’t lived in New York for almost thirty years—the chances of her running into anyone she knew from before are pretty slim, even at Stark Industries. Most of the people she’d worked with were still at the California branch and none of them worked for Will in the R & D lab.

 

It was one of the reasons Will transferred to New York after Tony died. He wanted to be able to see her more often and also spend time with little Tony Stark.  

 

Howard and Maria relocated to New York shortly after their son’s birth. Maria insists the schools are better and that her son needs to become acquainted with New York society. Howard has always flipped between both coasts pretty regularly, spending more time in New York after he’d gotten out of the movie business in the mid 60’s. 

 

Jarvis and Ana decided to stay in California and maintained the house there. From what Will told her, Ana likes California’s climate better and is happy to avoid winter in New York. Her arthritis acts up in the cold.

 

Another reason for the move was Will hated being alone in the house he and Tony had shared in California, at least for the first year or so after his love died. He purchased a beautiful apartment in an old building near Central Park which was within walking distance of Howard’s mansion and threw himself into renovations for the better part of a year.

 

She loves Will’s apartment. It has large windows facing the park, high ceilings, walls covered in built-in bookshelves, beautiful wood floors and the most gorgeous fireplace. He’d gotten a cat to keep him company last year, a squash faced female orange tabby with golden eyes he’d named Lady Marmalade. 

 

Darcy occasionally cat sits when her brother goes out of town on business. Marmalade trails behind her, suspiciously observing her depositing mail on the kitchen counter, watering Will’s extensive collection of potted plants, and reclining on the squashy green velvet sofa he’d positioned near one sunlit window. 

 

Sometimes Will is gone for more than a week, so she stays at his place rather than going back and forth from hers to his. Marmalade adores Will, he is her person. She merely tolerates everyone else. Nonetheless, Darcy and the cat have a relationship, if not a great love affair.

 

Sometimes, she calls Will when she’s at his place so he can make absurd kissy noises as she holds the receiver near Marmalade’s head. The cat purrs and rubs her face all over it in response.

 

It’s ridiculously adorable.

 

Her train of thought is interrupted by the quick patter of feet outside of Will’s office and a high voice exclaiming, “Hi Miss Emily!” in response to the receptionist’s startled squawk.

 

She stops the swing of the office chair and faces the door just as a small dark haired boy bursts through it, “Uncle Will! Guess what I made!” he shouts, skidding to an abrupt halt and frowning when he spots her in Will’s chair.

 

“Who’re you?” He says suspiciously.

 

She scans the little boy quickly, taking in his shock of dark hair, large brown eyes and mobile features. He clutches a square of metal in one hand. His clothing, obviously well made and carefully chosen, had probably been clean and perfectly pressed earlier in the day. Currently, they were rumpled, with several small burn holes along the edge of one shirt sleeve and a grease stain on his pant leg.

 

_ Anthony Edward Stark. _

 

She hasn’t seen him for at least two years, not in person anyway. Her brother keeps her updated with constant photos and information. 

 

“ _ Ana says he cried a lot, and the doctor said it was colic. Maria hired a nanny earlier than she’d planned just to get away from the noise.”  _

 

_ “Tony got so much better once he became mobile. Maybe he was crying because he was frustrated?” _

 

_ “He reminds me so much of Tony, Darce. Makes me wonder if he’d ever had a child if he would’ve looked like him.” _

 

_ “He has a lot of energy, Howard says he doesn’t sleep well. They hired a night nanny to take care of him.” _

 

_ “He’s so smart! He actually sat still while I showed him how to use a soldering iron today. He spent hours playing with odds and ends from the lab.” _

 

_ “Howard is too hard on him. Tony’s a little kid and Howard treats him like an annoying miniature adult. Sometimes he brings him to work and I keep an eye on him.” _

 

_ “Maria spends her time shopping or socializing, Tony is with his nanny most of the time.” _

 

Will painted a picture of a brilliant, restless little boy whose parents don’t have time or patience for him. Peggy confirmed it when she talked to her, saying only, “ _ Fatherhood is not what Howard expected, I suspect.” _

 

She removes the lollipop from her mouth and makes a quick decision, “You can call me Dee, I’m a friend of Will’s. I’m waiting for him to get out of his meeting. Who’re you?”

 

The little boy straightens, his chest puffing out, “I’m Tony Stark. This is my Dad’s company.”

 

“Ahh,” she says quietly, twirling the lollipop between her thumb and index finger, “nice to meet you Tony Stark. Though I have seen you before, you were much younger so you probably don’t remember.”

 

“I remember lots of things!” Tony exclaims.

 

“Maybe not everything?” She teases.

 

“Maybe not,” he admits, “but I remember the important things.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, “No doubt.” She pops the lollipop back into her mouth.

 

Tony’s dark eyes follow the motion and he says, “Hey, did you get that from Uncle Will’s desk?”

 

She pulls the lollipop from her mouth, “This?” She teases, wiggling it.

 

“Yeah—he keeps them in there. He usually gives me one when I visit,” he says, “I like the cherry ones best.”

 

“Hmmmm,” she hums, popping the lollipop back into her mouth and reaching down to open the lower left drawer.

 

“Uncle Will lets you go in his desk?” Tony says curiously, stepping closer to look around the corner of the desk to watch her rummaging through Will’s candy stash.

 

“Of course,” she says. 

 

“Huh. You must be important, then.”

 

“I guess so,” she says, grinning and handing him a cherry Tootsie pop. He takes it from her and grins in return. He swiftly unwraps the treat and pops it in his mouth, leaning around the desk to throw the wrapper in the trash.

 

“So what’d you make that you wanted to show Will?”

 

His response is slightly garbled by the candy in his mouth. “This!” He cries, brandishing the square of metal.

 

“Let me see,” she says, holding out her hand and wiggling her finger. He gives it to her, his dark eyes alight with excitement.

 

She turns it over in her hands, recognising it as a circuit board.

 

“You made this all by yourself?” She asks, noting the neatly soldered wires.

 

“Mmhmm,” Tony nods, he pulls the lollipop from his mouth, “Uncle Will showed me how solder and I’ve been reading a book about electronics.”

 

_ He’s reading a book about electronics.  _

 

_ Huh. _

 

“You have? Impressive. Does this work?” She asks waving the circuit board at him.

 

He rolls his dark eyes dramatically, “ _ Of course.” _

 

In that moment, his resemblance to his namesake is painfully obvious.

 

She watches as he wanders the room, lightly touching a crystal paperweight, fingering the leaf of a fern Will has positioned by the window, and running his fingers along the spines of some books on the bookshelf before pulling one free and settling in the chair across from the desk and flipping through the pages.

 

She carefully places the circuit board on Will’s desk, contemplating the little boy absorbed in his book as she twists back and forth in the desk chair.

 

Tony Stark made a circuit board and he’s reading a book about aerodynamics.

 

He’s not quite 5 years old.

  
  


()()()()()()

 

December 31, 1977

Studio 54

Manhattan

10:30pm

 

Darcy spins away from her dance partner, laughing under the strobe lights as her shoes sift through the four inches of glitter covering the floor.

 

As the thumping rhythm of the song shifts to one with a slower tempo, Gianni takes her hand, grinning as he drags her towards the bar.

 

“Are you having fun?” He says, his dark eyes intent as they lean against the bar, waiting for their drinks.

 

Her lips curve in response and she reaches out to smooth an errant curl away from his slightly sweaty forehead. “Yes, of course,” she says and he grasps her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss.

 

Their drinks arrive and his dark eyes smolder at her over his glass. “Think of all the fun we can have later,” he purrs.

 

She raises one eyebrow and purses her lips thoughtfully before taking a sip of her drink. “Promises, promises,” she teases, grinning and leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his lips before leaning back against the bar to scan the crowd.

 

He barks out a laugh, and she turns her head slightly to smirk at him. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners happily as he snakes an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

 

She sips her whiskey, savoring the burn as it coats her throat. She leans into Gianni, watching the writhing crowd on the dance floor, her eyes tracing over the many outrageous costumes. Studio 54 is a place of extremes. People from all walks of life mingle, a wildly varied mix of genders, ethnicities, sexual orientations, and ages. The crowd is dotted with the rich and famous, often posing for photos when the occasional society journalist asks.

 

From her vantage point, she can see Andy Warhol seated with Elton John and holding court from a banquette across the room, Cher, braless in a sheer shirt, Bianca Jagger, and Michael Jackson dancing amongst the crowd, several famous drag queens, a man wearing little more than a thong and gold body paint, and a fabulously dressed elderly woman known as “Disco Sally” being twirled around by a young man in leather pants. Weaving around the crowd are well muscled young men in tight shorts balancing trays of drinks destined for the groups of people seated at around the edges of the room.

 

The air is heavy with the scent of sweat, smoke, marijuana, alcohol, numerous perfumes and colognes, and  _ sex _ .

 

Lots and lots of sex is happening in the dark alcoves on the balcony which overlooks the dance floor. 

 

The whole scene is like some kind of hedonistic fever dream populated by blissed out beautiful people. 

 

She’s surprised they got in—Gianni had warned her that the doormen were selective and to dress to impress. But still, looking good doesn’t always mean you’ll gain entrance.

 

She’d searched through shops until she’d found a sequined, deep blue wrap dress. It forms to her curves like water and flares out each time she spins on the dance floor in her high heeled silver dancing shoes. She’d pulled a short silver fox fur jacket from storage, slipped on several cocktail rings, and layered necklaces with the locket she always wore. Her hair is a cloud of dark curls that falls to the middle of her back and her lips are slick with her favorite red lipstick. 

 

Gianni said flashy dressing gets you through the door so she took him at his word.

 

She looks good. Maybe not like the fashionably thin models and actresses languidly circulating through the crowd, but the years have taught her how to work with her assets.

 

Gianni is an occasional instructor at the dance school she and Will have been attending on Saturdays for more than 2 years and a dancer in the New York City Ballet. His mother was once a dancer. Her career had ended early because of an injury and she’d channeled her ambitions into her only child. The fact that he’s never been good enough to be cast in more than secondary parts in the ballet company is a point of contention between them, but Gianni seems content with his life. He gets to travel the world with the ballet company, earns extra money teaching dance, and goes to a lot of parties. 

 

This evening, his midnight blue silk shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his defined chest to display several gold chains and his black pants clung like a second skin to his muscular thighs. The man is the kind of handsome that’s closer to beautiful, with shiny black curls and flashing dark eyes. His full lips always seem poised to smile, and when he does he flashes charming dimples along with even white teeth.

 

She’d laughed it off when he’d started flirting with her after class months ago, assuming he was gay. He had that particular flamboyant vibe that she’d noticed amongst Will and Tony’s friends, plus he’s flirtatious with everyone.

 

She’d finally started taking his flirtation seriously when he asked her out dancing. Ever since, they’d spent many a Saturday night together hitting the dance clubs around town. 

 

The sex is great. He is very creative. Very athletic and tactile. Very much a man that loves women  _ and _ men. 

 

He loves variety. She’s very fond of him and they have tremendous chemistry, but they aren’t exclusive. She knows he sees other people, which works for her, because she is leaving town in a few months to start her new identity on the west coast and she’d hate to leave him lonely. 

 

In her life, she’s learned to compartmentalize. To find happiness in the moment because there is no guarantee of anything beyond it.

 

She’ll be starting at Stanford in the fall as an undergraduate in the premed program. Finally, she’s going to medical school.

 

Well, at least Diedre Buchanan will.

 

She finishes her drink and places the empty glass on the bar. Gianni takes her hand and leads her back to the dance floor once more.

 

For now, she’ll dance.

 

()()()()()()

 

September 15, 1978

Stanford University

Robles Hall Dormitory

7pm

 

“So how’re you settling in?” Will says, his voice slightly tinny through the telephone receiver.

 

She lays back on the bed in her single dorm room (no way was she sharing a room, she’s too old for that crap) and sighs.

 

“I’m fine. It’s always an adjustment, being around this many young people again. I have to relearn the slang and get used to some immaturity,” she says.

 

Will snorts, “Better you than me, Dee.”

 

“Dee? That’s what you’re calling me now?”

 

“If Tony can, so can I. Plus, it’s better than Deidre. I vote for choosing names I can shorten to Dee from now on. I’m getting too old to keep up with that stuff. What if I accidentally blow your cover?”

 

She laughs, “I’ll just explain that I resemble your long dead sister.”

 

“Mmhmm. I guess that could work. Say,” he pauses and clears his throat, “I have news,” he says softly.

 

“Oh?” She says, curious.

 

“Yeah, um—I’ve been seeing someone. I think it’s serious? I’d like you to meet him at Christmas. We could meet at the Carmel house this year if you like,” he says hurriedly.

 

“Really? You want me to meet him?” 

 

She adjusts the pillow behind her head and distractedly studies a water stain on the ceiling. If she tilts her head it looks vaguely like a hippo.

 

“Yeah. He’s important,” he says quietly.

 

_ Huh. Sounds serious. _

 

“If he’s important to you, he’s important to me.”

 

“Thank you. You know, I thought Tony was it for me. Jacob sort of took me by surprise.”

 

“Tell me about him.”

 

“Well, uh. He’s younger than me, 45—“

“Cradle robber,” she interjects, a smile curling her lips.

 

“Pshhhh—hypocrite.” She laughs as he continues, “he’s a lawyer with the ACLU. He’s from Queens, went to NYU, was very involved with the Civil Rights movement in the 60’s. He’s Jewish.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“His parents fled Vienna for England in 1938 and made their way to the U.S. after the war. Nearly all of his extended family died in the camps. He is very fierce about human rights, does a ton of pro bono work, lives in a crappy apartment in Queens. Tony and I met him years ago at one of Stark Industries charity shindigs in New York. He was a friend before any of this happened.”

 

_ It is serious. _

 

The gentle wonder in her brother’s voice as he speaks of his new love is very convincing.

 

_ “ _ Does Marmalade like him?” she teases.

 

“She adores him, I’m actually a little annoyed,” he laughs, “the little hussy pays more attention to him than to me when he comes over.”

 

“Oh my,” she chuckles.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs happily.

 

()()()()()()

 

Saturday, August, 6 1980

Long Island, New York

Sousa residence

 

“Nice place,” Darcy says, looking around the elegant foyer as Peggy’s ushers her inside. “How long have you been here now?”

 

“Thank you, we like it,” Peggy says as she closes the front door and turns to her, brow wrinkling in thought for a moment, “We moved here in 1973, just after Audrey graduated from high school and when SHIELD’s main base shifted from D.C. to New York City,” she says. “It was before the investigation of Nixon reached a fever pitch, thank god. The capital was positively awash with rumors of impeachment.” She shakes her head and sighs, “Anyway, I spent a lot of time in New Jersey at Camp LeHigh before it was decommissioned, so I was happy when New York became my home base again.”

 

She always wondered how Peggy dealt with the travel required by her job. She spent a lot of time away from her family and moving between Camp LeHigh in New Jersey to the offices in D.C. was the least of it. She somehow managed it all, a feat Darcy isn’t sure she’d have wanted to attempt for herself.

 

“Hmmm,” Darcy hums, walking across the polished marble tile to a nearby window and pushing the lace curtain aside to scan the sweep of green lawn surrounding the house, “lots of space—how’s the security?”

 

SHIELD may operate under the radar, but Peggy is an important figure in the intelligence community. She’s sure to have made plenty of enemies during her time as Director.

 

“Good. It’s a gated community as you saw. Less close to the action than our place near DC was. We looked for a place with room for when the children came home from college to stay. Of course, they’re both married now. Michael has his two children and it’s nice to have room for everyone when they visit. Though it can seem like too much house sometimes with just Daniel and I rattling around in it.”

 

“It still boggles my mind that you’re a grandma Peggy!”

 

“Mine too!” Peggy exclaims, a wide smile illuminating her face and making her look years younger. “They’re wonderful though. Also, Audrey is expecting!” 

 

“My goodness,  _ three _ grandchildren! Howard’s going to be jealous, he’s just getting started with Tony and you’re working on the second generation.”

 

Peggy laughs, “Oh, I don’t know. I think Tony is enough for him to handle.”

 

“I imagine so,” she says wryly, thinking of the little boy who was now 10 years old. Will had recently called her in a tizzy about Howard and Maria’s decision to send Tony away to an exclusive boarding school—the type to which politicians, diplomats, the rich and the famous sent their children.

 

Howard told him it would offer better security protection for his son as the school housed so many high profile people’s children. It  _ is _ true that Tony had been the target of several kidnapping attempts—Howard’s vast wealth attracted unsavory types like sharks to blood in the water.

 

She doesn’t know what to think, it’s been years since she’s had more than a brief conversation with the millionaire inventor. But from what she’s observed and gathered from conversations with Will and Peggy, he’s still the man he was before he married. When he’s not wrapped up in his work he’s drinking hard and carrying on affairs with various women. In response, Maria has thrown herself into charity work, shopping, and continuous renovation of Stark Mansion. 

 

Will said the choice to send Tony away was more likely because Maria and Howard did not have time to deal with their genius child’s attendant chaos instead of a security issue.

 

Her brother is heartbroken he won’t see Tony very often during the school year. 

 

She hadn’t been able to have much more than the occasional visit with the boy herself and only when she’d still been Elizabeth. Her shift in identity had required she move away from New York, after all. She still sent him gifts through Will, interesting gadgets and bits and bobs from junk shops she’d box up and send with a card signed _ See what you can do with this—Dee.  _

 

The boy is like a magpie, collecting junk and taking it apart to build something new from the parts. 

 

Peggy gestures for her to follow and they enter a sunlit sitting room where a matronly woman is finishing setting a small table with a platter of cookies and a tea service. 

 

“Thank you Martha,” Peggy says and the woman, evidently Peggy’s housekeeper, says, “You’re welcome ma’am,” and departs the room.

 

Darcy watches her leave and raises an eyebrow at Peggy in question.

 

Peggy shrugs, “I can’t do  _ everything _ Darcy. Martha is a lifesaver. Daniel and the children would have starved without her.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief,” Darcy says ruefully, “Good to know there’s  _ something  _ you need help with.”

 

“Of course I do! Silly.” She chuckles, absently tucking her hair (now liberally threaded with silver strands) behind her ear.

 

“I heard Daniel retired. How’s he handling that?” 

 

 “Oh, I think he gets a little stir crazy. He still consults a bit.  He started woodworking of all things—set up a shop in the basement,” she points to a beautiful maple cabinet across the room, “he made that.”

 

Darcy looks it over and raises her brows, “Very nice.”

 

Peggy hums in agreement.

 

“What about you? Thinking of retiring soon?” Darcy says.

 

“Oh—maybe just cutting back a bit, delegating more,” she pauses, then sighs, “Daniel would like me to soon, but there’s just so much to do—“ Peggy’s gaze becomes unfocused as she ponders the idea. After a moment she shakes herself out of her thoughts and says, “He’s on a boys trip with Michael this weekend—fishing,” she wrinkles her nose and shrugs. 

 

They seat themselves in the comfortable chairs placed on either side of the small table. She gestures to the teapot, “I have tea, but if your taste has changed to coffee I could have Martha make you some.”

 

“Tea would be excellent,” she says and reaches for a chocolate chip cookie as Peggy pours the steaming liquid into a china cup, then hands it to her.

 

Peggy takes a sip of her tea and looks at her over the brim, her dark eyes twinkling. “Just like old times. So, young lady, tell me about university,” she teases.

 

()()()()()()

 

December 9, 1980

Stanford, California 

Darcy’s apartment

6am

 

The phone rings insistently and Darcy shoves her arm out from beneath the covers, her hand patting the bedside table until she feels the receiver.

 

She pushes the pillow that covers her head over enough to bring it to her ear and mutters, “Hullo?”

 

“Did you hear? Some whacko shot John Lennon just down the block and killed him.”

 

She rolls onto her back and rubs the sleep from her eyes. She’d been up late the night before studying for finals. “Will? What?”

 

“Were you sleeping? You never sleep,” he says.

 

“Yes I do. It’s six in the morning, old man. I slept for approximately,” she pauses to glance at her alarm clock, “3 hours.”

 

“Oh. Sorry. It’s 8 here. Anyway—somebody killed John Lennon last night and it’s been a madhouse outside of the Dakota. Traffic will probably be shit.”

 

Darcy’s mind catches up with the conversation. John Lennon is dead? Why would anyone kill him?

 

_ The world is crazier than ever. _

 

“Hold on, let me turn on the news,” she says, dropping the phone to crawl off her bed to turn on the little TV perched on her dresser. 

 

She burrows back under the covers and shoves a few pillows behind her back to prop herself against the headboard. She watches a news reporter standing on the street outside of the Dakota Building in front of a milling crowd of news people, police officers, and grieving fans.

 

“Jesus,” Darcy says, “You’re right about traffic—it’s likely to be shit.” 

 

“Yeah,” Will says and she listens as the reporter describes the shooter, Mark Chapman.

 

“Damn. What the hell did John Lennon ever do to tick that guy off?”

 

“Dunno. I guess we’ll find out soon.”

 

She rolls over and stretches the cord of her phone to the limit, grabbing a shoe from under the edge of her bed and throwing it at the power button on the TV to turn it off.

 

“What was that?” Will says.

 

“Me turning off the news. So—how was Hanukkah?” 

 

Will had celebrated the holiday with Jacob and his family, “It was nice. Jacob’s family was very patient with the  _ goy _ .”

 

A muffled snort comes through the receiver and she recognizes Jacob’s voice, “Don’t talk shit Will—they love you. Mama made sure you got extra latkes.”

 

Will grumbles and there’s a scuffle on the other end that culminates with Jacob’s voice coming through the receiver, “Hiya Dee, looking forward to some California sunshine for Christmas.”

 

It turns out Will has a type. Brilliant, stubborn brunettes with smart mouths. Her brother’s new love is all of these things. Jacob is taller and more sturdily built than Tony had been, with wildly curly dark hair threaded with silver at the temples and icy blue eyes that glow with intelligence and humor. 

 

He’s a good man to have in your corner and a stubborn terrier of a man to have as an enemy. His courtroom opponents rue the day they cross him.

 

She’d decided at Will’s urging to reveal her mutant status to Jacob when they came to the Iowa house during summer break. 

 

_ “You need to make new connections, more permanent ones where they know the real you. You can trust Jake—he does a lot of work defending mutant rights with the ACLU,” he sighs deeply, and continues softly, “I don’t want to lie to him anymore about who you are—you’re important, you’re my only family and I want you to know each other.” _

 

She warily sat next to Jake at the kitchen table after dinner one evening with an old photo album and shown him all the pictures she had of she and Will growing up together. She and Will at a high school dance. She and Will at their Brooklyn apartment. She and Will during the war, with her in uniform and him in a flight suit by one of Howard’s planes. Time marched by in the photos—Will got older, she stayed the same.

 

She’d left out Steve and Bucky—that’s something that only really matters to her anymore.

 

He hadn’t really believed it until she’d drawn a carving knife from the knife block on the kitchen counter, held her hand over the sink, and sliced open the palm of her hand. He lunged forward to grasp her hand in concern and then dawning wonder as he dabbed at it with a dishcloth to find a rapidly healing wound.

 

He’d reverted to the German he’d spoken at home as a child. “Heilige Scheiße.”  _ Holy shit. _

 

She’d let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled with relief as he gently cleaned her hand. Someone else knew her secret, and it was alright. 

 

It was good.

 

“I can’t wait to see you both,” she says, and she means it.

  
  
  
  
[What was Studio 54 like?](https://www.vanityfair.com/news/1996/03/studio-54-nightclub-new-york-city)  
  


[The murder of John Lennon](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_John_Lennon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goy: A Jewish name for a non-Jew. Derogatory.
> 
> I’m sorry everyone for not responding to comments. I’ve been a little overwhelmed with my life lately. For a while, actually. But, I am going to try to go back and answer some of the questions people ask me and reply to the more detailed comments because many of you have written some amazing things that really deserve attention. Thank you!
> 
> Regarding Howard the bad father, in my head canon he is basically a workaholic, alcoholic, single for too long, and set in his ways. He thought he should get married and he fell in love with Maria, but once the initial shine wore off his eye wandered. He loves Tony but doesn’t know how to connect and doesn’t have patience with children. Maria spiraled after the birth (postpartum depression?) and struggles with knowledge her husband isn’t faithful and that reality hasn’t lived up to her dream. So there you go. 
> 
> Tell me what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy graduates from medical school and begins her residency. Tony starts at MIT. AIDS casts a shadow over the gay community.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta  
> This chapter was a struggle, y’all.
> 
> Updates will occur as quickly as I can write, which isn’t that quick these days, with all of the research I’m doing to assure historical accuracy. I go pretty far down the rabbit hole with all the preparation, lol.

May 20, 1985

Johns Hopkins University

Baltimore, Maryland

 

It’s humid in the auditorium and she is sweating in her cap and gown but Darcy doesn’t care. She’s just so damn happy to be finished with medical school and excited about beginning her residency in the fall.

 

_Thank god._

 

She looks over her shoulder and spots her friend Susan sitting several rows back. Her short dark hair, glasses, and the typically intense look of concentration makes her fine boned face look alarmingly serious until she catches Darcy’s eye and grins gleefully. 

 

She looks plain until she smiles. When she does, she’s transformed.

 

Darcy grins in return, sending her two thumbs up before turning back quickly to the front as the row in front of her rises and begins their walk to the stage.

 

Medical school had been difficult for reasons separate from the actual curriculum, which was difficult enough. She’d foolishly thought things had changed enough that her gender wouldn’t be as much of an issue as it would have been 30 years ago.

 

_Nope._

 

Sexism is alive and well, perhaps not as blatantly so—at least she was able to _go_ to medical School, but she soon learned she and the other women of her class had to do everything twice as well as their male classmates to get the credit they deserve.

 

Unexpectedly, she’d formed a tight friendship with a brilliant first year medical student named Susan Holiday. They had become acquainted through a study group formed between the only female students in her Human Anatomy and Applied Biochemistry classes (four, including herself) during her first semester of medical school. 

 

Halfway through that first year, Susan had been at her wits end trying to scrape together the rent for her tiny studio by working nights at a diner while simultaneously being buried under the massive workload of medical school. 

 

Darcy had an extra room in her apartment. 

 

She hadn’t lived in close quarters with anyone other than her brother for more than 30 years, but she had a good feeling about Susan. Besides, Will kept insisting she needed to make deeper connections with people “her age” so she reluctantly agreed.

 

She offered the room at half the price Susan was paying for her studio. She had offered it for free to begin with, but her friend wouldn’t have it, despite Darcy’s explanation of having inherited money when her parents had died. 

 

It turned out to be a great decision.

 

Susan is disciplined, organized, and _smart_. Seriously brilliant. Darcy knows if it weren’t for the advantages of her mutation, she wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. 

 

They have common interests in literature and music. In fact, Susan plays violin and often does so when she is working through a difficult problem in her head or stressed out. 

 

She was in awe of Darcy’s massive record collection when she first saw it (little did she know more than half of it was in storage), particularly the harder to find recordings she’d collected during the 40’s and 50’s. Darcy had explained she’d “inherited” a lot of the older records.

 

During first and second year, before their time became consumed by a series of clerkships, they hosted study parties with the other two women in their study group. Darcy would prepare some snacks, brew some coffee, and DJ while Susan quizzed everyone with the notecards she would meticulously prepare.

 

She could picture Susan as a teacher. She had a way of breaking down complex information that made it easier for others to remember and understand. During the four years they’d been at school, her friend’s focus had narrowed on pathology. She was primarily interested in the diagnostic and problem solving end of being a physician.

 

Maybe she’d end up in a university teaching and doing research. Presently, her goal is to work for the CDC after her residency at Cedars-Sinai in L.A. 

 

Hopefully, they will be able to keep in touch. A wish made more likely since Darcy is returning to the west coast for her residency in Internal Medicine at the University of California-San Francisco in July. She’s pleased to be a year ahead of schedule thanks to completing undergrad in three years instead of four, but it’s too bad there isn’t some way to accelerate things now. The residency schedule is very regimented.

 

Her current identity will put her at 29 years of age when she completes her residency, maybe 30 if she decides to specialize in infectious disease, as she’s been recently considering, given the urgency of the AIDS outbreak. San Francisco is ground zero for the disease in the United States, so she expects to see many afflicted patients during her training.

 

Hopefully, she’ll have a good 10 or 12 years of work before she is forced to shift identities. It doesn't matter. The knowledge and experience will be hers forever. 

 

Paperwork can be forged—she has plenty of connections now.

 

She climbs to her feet with the rest of her row and heads for the stage, hearing a sharp whistle from the back and a familiar voice shouting, “Go, Dee!” over the polite applause as she walks forward to receive her diploma.

 

She scans the rows of seats behind the graduating class and locates the beaming faces of Will and Jake (Jake is the one making all the noise, Will looks slightly embarrassed but mostly pleased with his lovers antics).

 

She grins, shaking the hands of the line of professors before finally clutching her diploma in her hand, turning to face the crowd and meeting her brother’s eyes.

 

_Yes._

  
()()()()()()

 

July 13, 1985

Alamo Square

San Francisco, CA

  
  


Darcy balances the laundry basket on her hip as she turns the doorknob to enter her third floor apartment. Music plays on low from the tv she’d left on when she went down to the basement to switch out her loads of laundry. It’s nearly noon and the morning fog has burned off. The sun shines through the bay window facing the street, the light bouncing off the polished wood floors and illuminating the window seat she’d piled high with pillows and a cozy patchwork quilt.

 

She slips off her sandals by the door and crosses the room, dropping her laundry basket on the coffee table and settling into the squashy second hand purple velvet sofa she’d bought from a thrift store in Haight-Ashbury. It smells faintly of patchouli and marijuana, but it’s ridiculously comfortable. 

 

She digs her toes into the soft pile of the oriental rug spread in the center of the room and absently begins folding laundry as Queen takes the stage at Wembley Stadium.

 

She’s been half listening to the Live Aid concert on MTV all morning as she cleaned up her place, sorted through some paperwork, then settled down to study some medical texts in between running up and down the 4 flights of stairs to the basement to get the two weeks worth of dirty clothes clean.

 

Today is the first daylight she’s seen in nearly two weeks, and she’ll be returning to the hospital at 5pm, likely staying until Sunday afternoon.

 

She’d anticipated the schedule would be grueling (80 hour weeks are normal) and hadn’t been disappointed. It’s not worse than being a nurse during WW2 and Vietnam, however, so she doesn’t complain. Intern and resident physicians certainly seem to love complaining about their crazy schedules, one upping each other regularly with tales of 48 hours straight in the hospital and horrible behavior on the part of attending physicians. They mainline coffee and wear the dark circles under their eyes like badges of honor.

 

She’d quickly gained favor with the nurses by asking them questions and treating them with respect. She cleans up her own messes and whenever possible she makes sure to do things some physicians considered grunt work best left to the nurses. There is always a doctor who mistakenly thinks he is God—she will never be that doctor.

 

The baked goods she drops off at the nurses station certainly hadn’t hurt, either.

 

The phone rings and she scoots across the sofa and grabs the receiver from the end table, her eyes glued to Freddie Mercury’s magnetic performance on the tv.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Dee! Are you watching Live Aid?” Her brother asks..

 

She smirks, “Of course. I’m surprised you are though, old man.”

 

“Tony’s visiting,” he says as if that is explanation enough. She guesses it is, the boy loves music—the louder the better. Howard has complained enough about it for her to remember.

 

The younger Stark is off to MIT in the fall to study mechanical engineering, but he’s also interested in physics and chemistry. Howard is insufferably proud of his son’s genius. If only he would tell Tony once in awhile they’d probably get along a lot better.

 

She hears Tony’s higher pitched voice in the background exclaiming over the crowd response at Wembley field as Mercury leads them like a conductor from the stage.

 

Will mutters, “You wanna say hi to Dee?” and suddenly Tony is on the phone.

 

“Hey, Dee.”

 

“Hey, brat.” The boy snorts on the other end of the phone and she smirks, “Did you get the last box I sent you?”

 

“Oh yeah! Thanks!” His adolescent voice cracks and he clears his throat self-consciously and repeats in a lower register, “Ahem—thanks.”

 

She’d sent him the newest IBM computer with Microsoft OS/2 on it. 

 

“I prefer Apple myself, but it’s good to diversify. I know you probably already have one, I figured you could take it apart and mess around with the parts,” she says wryly.

 

Howard still uses money to express himself, so Tony has a lot of toys.

 

She’d moved into an apartment the last year she’d been at Stanford and her neighbor was an adorably nerdy Computer Science graduate student named Louis. He had a passion for mathematics, computers, and gadgets of all kinds as well as a burgeoning investment portfolio. He’d convinced her to buy stock when Apple went public in 1980. 

 

Other than Stark Industries, it is the best investment she’s ever made.

 

Tony had been pressing his father to develop personal computers for years, insisting they could make better ones. Despite Tony’s obvious genius, Howard has a blind spot when it comes to his son. He tends to shrug off his suggestions, inadvertently widening the gap between them. He also primarily focuses on the lucrative defense contracts he’d brokered with the help of his new CBO Obediah Stane. 

 

Oh, Howard still has his passion projects—clean energy, and from what Will said, he’s still obsessed with recreating the serum that made Steve into Captain America. Perhaps she’s being cynical, but she suspects his continued search for the Valkyrie has become less about a promise he’d made to her and more about the possibility of a bit of Steve’s DNA. 

 

Howard has changed a great deal as the years have gone by. They’ve all changed, sure—but the inventor seems to have been utterly consumed by his work.

 

She’s spent many a phone conversation with Will bemoaning the situation. Her brother considers Howard to be one of his closest friends and dotes on Tony to a ridiculous degree (apparently Jarvis does the same whenever the boy is in California) and those two mother hens work to shore up the younger Stark’s confidence and give the boy a solid support when his parents fail to do so.

 

Will worries about Tony’s lack of friends. He is an abrasive thing. Far beyond his peers in intellect and seemingly unwilling or unaware of how to dim his light a little so others can shine. Like his father, he’ll get an idea and it becomes all consuming. He spends a lot of time alone tinkering and his closest companions in life are a couple of old men. 

 

She sincerely hopes he finds his people or person at MIT.

 

“Oh, I took apart the one Dad gave me so maybe I’ll just use yours as is,” Tony says.

 

“Yeah? What’d you make?” 

 

“A robot prototype. It’s really too rudimentary to even call it a robot, but it was fun to make,” a faint rumbling purr in the background announces Marmalade’s presence on the boy’s lap.

 

“Huh. I’m sure it wouldn't be rudimentary to _most_ people. Is that Marmalade I hear? Hold the phone by her head,” she says.

 

She proceeds to make kissy noises and says, “ _Helloooo Marmy baby, hellloooo.”_

 

Tony interrupts, “You're as bad as Uncle Will. You realize she’s completely uninterested right?”

 

“Nuh uh. She _loooves_ me.”

 

Tony sighs dramatically and she snickers in response.

 

“So what are you gentlemen up to today?” She says, cradling the receiver between her chin and shoulder as she neatly folds her scrubs and sets them aside.

 

“Eh—I just came over an hour ago. Mom and Dad are out of town and I’m bored. I was hoping Uncle Will would take me over to SI and let me fiddle around with some stuff in R & D.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Mmhmm. He said no. Says he spends enough time at work. Instead, we’re gonna go out to the airport and fly around in his plane for a bit.”

 

At 67 years old, Will has cut back his hours at SI significantly. He’s working in a supervisory role on several projects in R & D but plans on retiring fully when they are completed. He and Jake travel often—Will has his own plane at a Stark Industries owned airport just outside of the city and they use it often.

 

“That sounds fun. Where’s Jake?”

 

“Some work thing,” Tony says, distractedly, “You wanna talk to Will again? I’m gonna watch Queen.”

 

“Sure kid. Maybe I’ll see you when you have winter break.”

 

Hopefully. She doubts she’ll get to go home for Christmas, but maybe a few days before or after.

 

She still doesn’t know if she’ll reveal her mutation to Tony. He’s too young to burden with such a secret. Fortunately, she still has time in her current identity to figure it out.

 

“Ok—I’ll try to write.”

 

“You can call, you know. I got an answering machine. I know my hours are erratic but I’ll call you back.”

 

“Alright. I’m not sure what my number will be once I get to school but I’ll let you know,” he pauses, his voice becoming less distracted for a moment, “I have an answering machine too—took it apart and added some improvements.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah—made it so it takes a longer message. Got sick of it cutting things off so quick after the beep.”

 

She has no idea how he accomplished that and doesn’t bother to ask. He hates explaining things in layman terms anyway.

 

“That’s handy. I wouldn’t mind one like that.”

 

“I’ll fix one up for ya and send it—Uncle Will gave me your new address so I could write. Talk to ya later, Dee.”

 

He hands the phone back to Will before she can say goodbye and she sighs at the self-absorbed nature of teenage boys, no matter how brilliant. She and Will exchange news as the concert plays on in the background. Will tells her about the pro bono cases Jake is doing for a few AIDS patients. Fear of the disease is so pervasive that most hide their diagnosis for as long as possible, wary of losing their jobs and more crucially, their health insurance.

 

Jake is waging a battle against several employers who unceremoniously fired employees with the affliction. 

 

The more time she spends at the hospital, the more evident the devastation is. An entire generation of gay men is dying. Too many justify turning their backs on them because they perceive being gay as a moral failing and AIDS as their punishment.

 

Only now, as the notion that AIDS is not a “gay disease” has reached the public consciousness, has more research funding been mobilized. Unfortunately, it’s still not enough. People still shun the infected even though the CDC identified all major routes of transmission and ruled out transmission by casual contact, food, water, air or surfaces by September of 1983.

 

Perhaps her perspective is skewed given the protection her mutation provides, but she has little patience with ignorance and discrimination.

 

Lawyers like Jake will be fighting the battle on their front.

 

She will be fighting on hers.

 

She ends the conversation with her brother on a high note, amused by Tony wondering about growing a mustache like Freddy Mercury and her brother teasing, “I don’t think that peach fuzz you’re growing will cut it, kid.”

 

She giggles through her goodbye as Tony squawks indignantly in the background, “Just you wait! I’ll have the best mustache _ever.”_

 

()()()()()()

  
  


February 18, 1987

San Francisco General Hospital

Ward 5B—AIDS inpatient unit

4am

 

She’s just finished up rounds and her shift has ended but she heads to room 608. Darcy can’t leave Henry alone—she knows he hasn’t got a lot of time left.

 

She feels so helpless, watching her patients on the AIDS ward decline. All they can do is battle each opportunistic infection as it comes, shoring up the patients steadily weakening immune systems as much as possible in the hope that a cure will arrive before their bodies fail.   
  


At least here, in this ward, they are treated well. Everyone who works here is there because they are willing to help. There are still too many health professionals who fear working with AIDS patients—she’s heard of the neglect sick patients had suffered in the hospital before the ward was founded.

People are scared. At present, AIDS is a death sentence.

What makes it worse though, is how alone some of these men are. Their families had shunned them because of their sexuality long before they became ill and leave them alone to fight the ravages of the disease.

Henry is one of these. He has friends, sure. They visit some days. But his family should be here, dammit. 

  
None of them have ever come to see him.

 

“Mom? Mom?” He says weakly as she enters the dim room, the light from the hallway streaking the floor briefly before she pushes the door nearly closed behind her.

 

He’s awake but delirious, his breathing labored despite the oxygen tubes snaking into his nostrils. He has Pneumocystis pneumonia, the result of a common tiny parasite which does no harm to those with an intact immune system but grows out of control in AIDS patients. 

 

There are drugs that combat it, but Henry doesn’t have enough time for them to do their job.

 

His startlingly blue eyes and lovely bone structure are the only vestiges of his once handsome face, now ravaged by disease. He’s painfully thin, suffering from the wasting so often seen in AIDS patients as their immune system grows weaker. 

 

She crosses the room and sits beside the bed, taking his hand in hers and gazing calmly at him as his head turns on the pillow and his vivid blue eyes focus on her.

 

“Mom?” He says, clearly not recognizing her.

 

She sighs sadly and says, “Yes, Henry. I’m here.”

 

“Oh—“ his eyes fill with tears, “Oh, I missed you.”

 

“I missed you too, darling,” she chokes out, squeezing his hand.

 

_Surely this is a kindness?_

 

She can only hope so.

 

She’d met him during a rotation through the clinic a year ago. He’d brought a sick friend in and helped get his paperwork squared away. 

 

Months later, that same friend was on Ward 5B,  nearing the end of his life with Henry by his side. She’d asked him if there was anyone she should notify due to the seriousness of his friend’s condition and he’d said with painful flippancy, “Oh honey, we’re lost boys. Our families don’t want us. I’ll be taking care of the arrangements.”

 

A dry wracking cough rattles in his chest and it’s several moments before it subsides.

 

She rises to take the cup of water from the table beside the bed and asks, “Are you thirsty?”

 

He nods weakly and she places the straw between his lips and he slowly sips at the water before turning his face away.

 

“Thanks,” he sighs. She smooths his hair back from his forehead and pulls the thin hospital blanket up around his shoulders.

 

She holds his hand until he falls asleep.

 

()()()()()()

 

July 20, 1988

Iowa house

8pm

 

Darcy calls out, “Will, Jake—cake’s ready!”

She begins lighting the forest of colorful candles atop the triple layer chocolate cake she’d made for Will’s birthday. She’d baked it earlier in the day while Will and Jake had gone into town for a couple hours and finished up decorating it while they’d gone for a walk after dinner.

 

He’s 70 today.

 

They’re both 70 now. 

 

_Holy shit._

 

It’s scary to let her mind linger too long over the fact that her brother is an old man. It should be obvious, she guesses—Will’s hair is white now, his still handsome face marked with crinkles next to eyes and grooves bracketing his mouth that speak to years lived, many of them happy. 

 

But when she looks at him she just sees her brother, steady and supportive as ever, as constant as the sunrise.

 

He’s been retired for several years now, spending much of his time volunteering with a charitable foundation devoted to AIDS research and education in New York. His connections through years of working for Stark Industries have proven invaluable—Howard and Maria being foremost among them. 

 

She hears the squeak of the screen door opening as the men enter from the front porch where they had gone to smoke Cuban cigars from the box Howard had gifted Will for his birthday. Their laughing voices drift closer and the aromatic scent of cigar smoke precedes them into the kitchen.

 

Jake playfully cries, “Someone call the fire department!” His blue eyes widening comically as he spots the cake, glowing under a blanket of lit candles.

 

Will pauses in the doorway, muttering ruefully, “Whoa, that’s _a lot_ of candles,” before coming to stand beside her at the counter.

 

She nudges him with her hip and chuckles, “As many as I could fit, old man. Not quite 70 though,” she says. She lights the last candle and begins to sing, “ _Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you—“_

 

Jake’s deeper voice joins in and Will looks faintly embarrassed as they come to the end of the song.

 

“Make a wish,” she says softly.

 

“Make it a good one,” Jake teases.

 

Will grins, his smile radiant as he leans forward and blows out the candles.

 

  
[History of Apple ](https://www.loc.gov/rr/business/businesshistory/April/apple.html)

[History of Microsoft](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/microsoft-founded)

[info about LiveAid](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Live_Aid)

[History of AIDS](https://www.avert.org/professionals/history-hiv-aids/overview)

[Ward 5B, inpatient AIDS ward at SF General](https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2019/06/26/736060834/1st-aids-ward-5b-fought-to-give-patients-compassionate-care-dignified-deaths)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh. Time passes on. I got a little kick out of Darcy increasing her fortune by investing in Apple. It’s what I would do if I traveled back in time, for sure.
> 
> Darcy is one year away from being a full fledged doctor, I’m going to jump ahead a bit past her residency though in the next chapter. 
> 
> Tony completes his undergrad in 3 years and as Darcy is finishing her residency he’s working on his masters and doctorate in mechanical engineering and physics. Brilliant lad, lol.
> 
> Still not sure how, if, or when Darcy will reveal her mutation to Tony. Hmmmm.
> 
> Thanks for your patience, gentle readers. Let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy has a little break before starting her first official job after finishing her residency. Some events in the following year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta. 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait everyone. Thanks for all of the encouraging comments! I read every one. If you have a question I try to answer, as long as it doesn’t spoil the story! Lately, not much time but I’m still plugging away.

Saturday, September 15, 1990

Malibu, California

Garland residence

3pm

 

Darcy stretches one hand over the edge of the float, paddling languidly til she reaches the side of the pool. She grasps the sweating glass resting on the tiled edge and brings it to her lips, slurping a bit of the margarita Will had poured in it before he’d retreated to the house to mix another pitcher.

 

She sets her glass on the edge again, pushing off from the side and drifting into Jake from the force of her shove.

 

He grumbles and lowers his sunglasses to look at her, his vibrant blue eyes sleepy, “You woke me from my nap,” he says, pushing his sunglasses back into place and wriggling to center himself more comfortably on his float.

 

“Sorry,” she sighs, cupping her hand in the water and dribbling moisture over her chest and belly.

 

It’s nearly 90 degrees. The best way to enjoy the outdoors is to stay wet.

 

“You’re starting to burn a little,” she says, glancing at the skin of his reddening chest under its light pelt of salt and pepper hair.

 

“Eh—Never lasts long. I’ll be darker tomorrow,” he says, swiping a wet hand down his chest and then over his face.

 

It’s true. Given the opportunity, Jake turns a deep golden brown in the sun—his blue eyes shockingly bright in his face. He and Will had come out to Malibu to meet up with Darcy when she told them she had some time before she started her new job at the San Francisco General AIDS clinic. They still spend the bulk of their time in the New York where Jake works full time. Usually, they are in Malibu for a month after Christmas and the occasional week throughout the year.

 

It’s a good thing Will held on to the house he and Tony had shared in California. There had been a time that he wanted to sell it, but she’d talked him out of it. If nothing else, a beachfront house in Malibu is a good investment.

 

She eyes Jake’s reddened skin. It appears he spent most of the summer indoors this year. Will had mentioned he’d been working on several difficult cases.

 

As for herself, her fair skin is marred by nothing more than a light flush due to the heat. 

 

She glances down at the soft curve of her belly, a little self-conscious in the red bikini she’d purchased for her vacation at Will’s place. She’s never worn anything so skimpy outside of her bedroom. Times certainly have changed, the last time she’d worn a bikini was the early 60’s when the suits were more— _structured._ But the salesgirl who’d pushed the flimsy scraps of fabric on her had assured her she looked “fly.”

 

_Sigh._

 

Her body type is not very popular in the current era, nor is her pale skin. In the United States, thin, deeply tanned blonds are all the rage. 

 

California is chock full of them.

 

Oh, well. It doesn’t matter. Beauty trends come back around and her curves are classic. She’s too old to be bothered, she tells herself firmly.

 

She slips off the edge of her float into the water, placing her white framed sunglasses on the edge of the pool before diving beneath the surface to swim to the bottom.

 

She turns onto her back, looking up at the lime green rectangle of Jake’s pool float as her dark hair floats around her head like seaweed. She relaxes into the near silence while she holds her breath for about five minutes. The shadow of Jake’s head leaning over the side of his float prompts her to swim to the surface again, popping up beside her brother’s lover to take a breath.

 

“I hate it when you do that,” Jake complains.

 

“Why?”

 

“You stay down too long. Even though I know better, I always worry that you’re drowning.”

 

“I’m building up my lung capacity. I knew someone once who could hold their breath for 20 minutes.”

 

“Who—Captain America? Will told me that the two of you knew him.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The recent declassification of a lot of WW2 documents and film footage (including some heavily redacted information about Operation Rebirth, the Howling Commandos, and Captain America—though her contribution to their missions was buried long ago and forgotten) has made Captain America comics and cards regain popularity. They are quite the collectors items these days.

 

She’s heard there is even a film in the works—focusing on Captain America’s adventures with his best friend Bucky Barnes and his tragic romance with Peggy Carter.

 

She calls Peggy every few weeks (it’s much easier to get ahold of her than it used to be, her retirement from SHIELD in ‘85 had helped with that) and her friend had grumbled about it when she’d teased her in their phone conversation nearly a month ago, “ _Daniel is the love of my life, thank you very much.”_

 

After 45 years, people finally know how a scrawny kid from Brooklyn named  Steve Rogers became an American icon. Too bad political pundits and media personalities alike scoff at his role—labeling him primarily an instrument of propaganda.

 

They don’t know everything he’d done. They don’t know about Hydra and the persistent efforts of groups like them. There are things buried deep at SHIELD that will never get out.

 

“Yeah—Will worked with Howard on the project, I was an Army nurse, eventually I worked with the SSR.”

 

She trusts Jake, she _does_. 

 

But some things are best left in the past.

 

She swims over to the side to grab her sunglasses before climbing back on her float, slicking her wet hair back from her face and putting them back on.

 

“Hard to believe you’re older than me,” Jake mutters.

 

She flicks some water at him in response and he flicks some back.

 

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway is followed by voices in front of the house.

 

“Hey, are you guys expecting anybody?”

 

“I don’t think so—why?”

 

“Somebody’s at the door,” she says, tensing a bit then relaxing as she recognizes Tony’s voice along with another male voice belonging to someone Will seems to recognize based on his enthusiastic greeting. _“James! Long time no see. How’s the Air Force treating you?”_

 

“It’s Tony and someone named James,” she tells Jake.

 

“Ah—Tony’s friend from school, James Rhodes. He was in the ROTC and joined the Air Force when he graduated from MIT,” he replies, “I wonder if Howard and Maria are in California too.”

 

“Hmmm,” she hums, tracking the conversation within the house. She remembers Will talking about James, whom Tony calls Rhodey. He’s one of the few friends Tony managed to make in college and when the young Stark extends his friendship to someone he goes all in.

 

Tony is in Malibu on his own, Howard and Maria are in Paris just ahead of fashion week, which Maria always attends.

 

“Nah, Tony says they’re in Paris.”

 

“Ah—fashion week?”

 

“Yeah,” she says.

 

She has the uncharitable thought that Howard probably likes it because of all the pretty models. 73 years old and the man still hasn’t retired and still has a wandering eye.

 

Poor Maria.

 

She hears Will say, _“_ Why don’t the two of you go out to the pool and say hi to Jake and Dee—I might have some trunks you can borrow if you wanna swim.”

 

“Ah no, Uncle Will. I gotta get Rhodey back to base in a couple hours so we can’t visit for long.”

 

“Oh well, you can at least stay for a drink, right?” Will says, the disappointment in his voice audible to Darcy but probably not to Tony.

 

“Sure thing! Come on Rhodey.”

 

She tracks their voices as they exit the kitchen and walk closer to the back of the house. 

 

“ _Whoa_ ,” says a voice she identifies as Tony’s friend just before the door leading out to the pool opens.

 

“What?” Tony says.

 

“Who is _that_?” 

 

“Dee?” Tony says, distractedly.

 

“ _Dee_ ,” Rhodey’s deep voice says, a current of male appreciation running through it.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you really looking at that stupid pager again, man? Look out the window—Dee is _fine_.”

 

There’s a pause, then Tony says abruptly, “ _Ew, no._ She’s like family. Sort of.”

 

A warm feeling suffuses her chest and she can’t help but smile.

 

 _Family_.

 

The door opens and the two emerge, Tony rolling his dark eyes at the slim black man who walks beside him. 

 

She lowers her sunglasses and exclaims, “Tony! Long time no see!” 

 

It’s been more than two years. Tony has filled out, looking much more a man than a boy at 20 years old. She wonders if it hurts or comforts Will to look at him. Though the papers like to gush about how much he resembles Howard, she thinks he more closely resembles his namesake. 

 

She raises an eyebrow and says, “Who’s your friend?”

  
  


()()()()()()

 

Thanksgiving, November 22, 1990

San Francisco General Hospital

Ward 86, AIDS clinic

3:30pm

 

Darcy shuts off the water and pushes the shower curtain aside to grab one of the two towels she’d hung on the hook just outside the shower. She bends forward, squeezing as much water from her hair as possible before grabbing the second towel to quickly dry off and wrap it around her.

 

The locker room is mostly empty, two nurses, Amy Yang and Jenny Miller, chat quietly near the sinks as they fix their hair and put on a bit of lipstick while she dresses in her street clothes then removes her name tag ( _Dr. Diedre Buchanan,_ it still thrills her _)_ from her scrubs and bundles them up to drop in the laundry bin.

 

She sits on the bench by the lockers and combs out her hair, working slowly through the tangles in the long curly mass and thinking about the patients she’d seen during her shift before loosely braiding it and tying it off. She checks the pockets of her bag, making sure her stethoscope is in its designated pocket before grabbing her Walkman from the bottom of her bag to stuff it in her coat pocket before lifting her braid to hang her headphones around her neck. 

 

Howard had sent her the stethoscope and an extravagantly expensive bottle of 25 year single malt when she’d completed her internship and gotten hired at San Francisco General. She’d called to thank him, but they’d played phone tag for a month before he’d finally gotten ahold of her late one evening, his voice loose and slightly slurred, most likely the usual combination of fatigue and alcohol.

 

She’d thanked him for the gifts and he’d said, _“You deserve it, kid. You waited so long to catch that dream and I’m glad for you,”_ he’d paused, the line silent except for his breathing on the other end and the background sound of papers rustling and a clock ticking the only thing to be heard. She’d begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep when he continued softly, “ _you know, I’m still looking for him.”_

 

He called her every spring to report that they still haven’t found the Valkyrie but he’d keep trying.

 

 _“I know,”_ she said softly. 

 

She sometimes wished he’d stop looking. 

 

Steve was _gone._ His body won’t give her closure, only time had done that. Now, she feared if he were found he’d be picked over at SHIELD like carrion by a flock of vultures. 

 

 _“Biggest failure of my life—losing him. Shouldn’ta happened—“_ he muttered.

 

Internally, she disagreed. His biggest failure, as far as she could tell, was his relationship with his son. 

 

She sighed, wondering how Howard had gotten so stuck on finding Steve. Finding Captain America, actually. Somehow, over time, Howard had bought into the bigger than life legend surrounding Steve and forgotten he’d just been a young man, albeit an extra durable one thanks to the serum. He wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. 

 

“ _Stop, Howard. It’s not your fault. Besides, it’s ancient history,”_ she said.

 

“ _Ancient,”_ he murmured, “ _like me—like you, except you aren’t really. Funny, that.”_

 

“ _You’re not ancient—“_

 

 _“I am, I am. Some days I get scared, Darce. There’s so much to do and not enough time,”_ he sighed tiredly, the clink of ice cubes against a glass filled the silence. He continued, “ _Oh well. Say, do me a favor kid?”_

 

_“Anything.”_

 

_“Look out for Tony. I won’t be around forever but you, well—you know.”_

 

_“Yeah. Of course I will.”_

 

She slings the bag over her shoulder, and grabs the two plastic containers of cookies she’d stacked in the bottom of her locker that morning before stopping briefly by the sink to check herself in the mirror.

 

“Hey Dee. You heading out for the night?” Amy says, her dark eyes friendly. 

 

Darcy is on a first name basis with most of the nurses on the ward. The old guard frowns on it and she understands there is a chain of command, but unless she’s on the clock she doesn’t stand on formality. 

 

Nurses are the backbone of the hospital after all. As a doctor, she depends on them and their goodwill goes a long way towards her own success.

 

“Yep,” she replies, fishing in her bag for some lip balm, “What about you ladies?”

 

“I’m going over to Jenny’s for a,” Amy’s slim fingers form air quotes, “‘traditional’ Thanksgiving dinner—my folks don’t do turkey and stuffing,” she says.

 

“Oh yeah? What do they do?” Darcy asks.

 

“Work. They own a restaurant and we don’t close for the holidays. You’d be surprised how many people show up to eat Chinese for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Not everybody has a place to go, I guess.”

 

Darcy thinks of their patients, many of whom have estranged family relations and nods, “True.”

 

Jenny gives her brown hair perfunctory last pat and says, “What about you? Got plans for dinner?”

 

It’s been _years_ since she’s celebrated Thanksgiving the traditional way, or even on the day. Christmas seems to be the only holiday she can manage to spend with Will, and even that has been hit or miss with school and then work. 

 

This year she has somewhere to be.

 

“Oh, I have a group of friends who’re all far from family this year. We’re meeting up for a potluck,” she says.

 

“Nice. Is that what’s in the containers?” Amy says, gesturing to where they were stacked on the floor. The nurses are all familiar with her habit of leaving treats in the break room.

 

“Nah, I’m stopping home for that. These are some cookies for the ER break room and the one in the ICU,” she says, “I’m dropping them off before I leave. Did you try the ones I left in the break room here?”

 

Amy pulls a tragic face, “All the brownies were gone by the time I got to them.”

 

Darcy rolls her eyes and grabs one of the containers and pops the lid. 

 

“Alright, have at ‘em.”

 

The two women gleefully grab a brownie from the collection of treats and Darcy fishes out a pumpkin spice cookie studded with pecans from a new recipe she’d been working on. 

 

 _Pretty good._ Maybe add white chocolate chips next time?

 

Hmmm.

 

She pops the lid back on the container and leans against the sink while they eat their treats and finish primping, the three of them talking a bit of shop about the patients that they’d seen that day.

 

Amy sighs regretfully when she swallows the last bit of brownie and dusts off her hands. “Damn, that was good. I don’t know how you find the time Dee.”

 

“Ah, well. I don’t sleep much— chronic insomnia. But baking helps me relax so—“

 

Jenny chimes in, “Yeah, I get it. I feel like I got on the insomnia train back in nursing school and never got off.”

 

Amy says, “You should come over to Golden Gate Park sometime. My uncle runs Tai Chi classes there a few times a week. It’s relaxing—might help you sleep once you learn how.”

 

“Oh? I’ve seen people over there doing stuff and I always wondered what that was about. Maybe I’ll check it out.”

 

It could be fun. 

 

Who knows? If nothing else it would give her something new to do in the small hours of the morning when she isn’t working and the rest of the world is asleep.

 

She glances at her watch and starts—“Oh crap, I gotta go.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and grabs her plastic containers, “See ya later! Happy Thanksgiving!”

 

()()()()()()

 

Two hours later she’s trudging up the creaky stairs to a third floor walk-up in a pastel painted Victorian in the Castro District, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box with several covered dishes and pie pans in it. 

 

She arrives at 3B and hears a bevy of voices raised within and moves the box to her hip to free up her arm to knock.

 

She smiles when the door opens to reveal a thin, sharply dressed older man with a neatly trimmed white goatee. “Hi Robbie,” she says.

 

“Dr. B! You made it!” He cries, swinging the door wide with a flourish and turning to the rooms occupants, “Dr. B is here everyone!”

 

“Hey!” “Hello!” “Welcome!” A group of her occasional patients and some of their friends cry.

 

“Danny, get her a drink, love,” Robbie instructs, taking the box from her and muttering, “ _Oof. Heavier than it looks_ ,” before propping it on one hip.

 

Danny waves from his stool beside the bar cart across the room, his round face flushed and his blue eyes bright, “What’ll ya have, darling?

 

“I’m not on call. Make it a whiskey, neat. Please and thank you,” she says, taking the drink when it’s passed from hand to hand over to her then waving over her shoulder as Robbie tugs her towards the large bright kitchen.

 

He announces as they enter the room, “Look sweetheart, Dr. B is here and she brought goodies.” He deposits her box on the butcher block countertop before he heads over to the oven to peek at the turkey.

 

His partner, Julio, is seated at the kitchen table, sipping at a steaming mug of ginger tea.

 

He sends her a wan smile, his dark eyes tired. 

 

“Hi Dr. B. You here to check up on me?” 

 

“Nah—Robbie invited me for the potluck. How’re you doing?” She says, unloading the containers from her box.

 

“Alright. The new drugs make me a little nauseous but the tea helps.”

 

She expected it. The drug protocols for HIV patients can have some uncomfortable side effects, especially in the first couple weeks of taking them.

 

“Ginger tea?” She asks, though her nose already tells her what he’s drinking.

 

“Yeah, sometimes peppermint. Lady down at the market said it helped her when she had morning sickness, so—“ he shrugs.

 

“It _does_ help,” she says, and pops the lid on a container of cookies to place it on the kitchen table, taking a seat next to Julio. She fishes out a gingerbread cookie, heavier on the ginger for just this reason and hands it to him.

 

“Try it. The ginger does help and you need to eat something.”

 

He has lost weight in the two weeks since she last saw him.

 

He frowns at the proffered treat but takes it, nibbling at the edge before dipping it in his tea and taking a bigger bite.

 

She glances at Robbie, who’s finished basting the turkey and leans against the counter drying his hands with a dish towel and smiling softly at their exchange.

 

She jumps up from the table, “Do you have room in the oven to warm up my sweet potato casserole Robbie? I’ve got a couple of pies too. Just wait, you’re gonna love ‘em.”

 

()()()()()()

 

April 5, 1991

Alamo Square

San Francisco, CA

7:30pm

 

Darcy shrugs the falling strap of her gym bag higher on her shoulder as she opens her mailbox and grabs the stack of mail, flicking through it and discarding the junk mail in the garbage can in the corner before turning to take the stairs to her apartment.

 

She feels good—relaxed.

 

She’d taken Amy Yang’s advice and joined the Tai Chi classes at Golden Gate Park and sometimes at the Chinatown YMCA several months ago. She enjoyed the slow dance of movements, the methodical breathing, and the focus on being in the moment. 

 

She still attends occasionally, but what really grabbed her interest was the instructor’s mention of martial arts for self defense one day after class. It had been years since she’d had any type of fight training and at the time it had been basic brawling, not exactly tailored to someone of her admittedly short stature. Mostly, she relied on a surprise uppercut or Peggy’s patented “hit them in the head with something heavy” technique. She’d very rarely needed it in the field, as her work was always at a distance, either in reconnaissance or as a sniper.

 

Sure, she’s strong and fast. But her ability to fight in close quarters had always been a weak spot for her, and she finally had the opportunity to address it. 

 

She asked around, found out about a guy named Ralph Castro who’d been teaching martial arts in the Bay Area since the 60’s. His current school taught Kenpo Karate and was over in Daly City—not far. 

 

She made the 20 minute drive once or twice a week as her schedule allowed.

 

Days like today, she arrives home feeling loose, the bruises she’d gained through sparring gone by the time she gets there.

 

She enters her apartment and drops her bag by the door and her keys into the ceramic dish on the entryway table before continuing to the kitchen, tossing the mail on the counter and grabbing a clean glass from the dish rack to fill with water from the sink. She heads to the living room, the squashy purple sofa black in the faint illumination from the street lights shining through the window. The red light on her answering machine blinks at her in the gloom and she sits on the end of her sofa with a sigh.

 

Maybe Peggy has called her back—when she called a few days ago she’d gotten her answering machine. 

 

The first message is from Susan Holliday, confirming she will be attending the AIDS research conference in Washington D.C. in June.

 

Good. She’s looking forward to catching up with her roommate from medical school. 

 

The second one is from Will, his voice solemn, “ _Hey, Dee. Um, could ya give me a call? Howard just called—I guess Peggy’s husband had a heart attack a couple days ago and he passed away early this morning. I imagine the funeral will be in a couple days. I know you’ll want to be there for her,_ ” he pauses for a moment, before saying softly, _“I guess we should be used to this by now, huh? Anyway, gimme a call as soon as you can, love you.”_

 

She leans her head back against the sofa and stares dully at the ceiling, her eyes tracking the streaks of light from headlights as they pass by on the street. 

 

Daniel Sousa, dead. Peggy must be devastated.

 

She sighs, straightening to grab the phone.

 

()()()()()()

 

April 8, 1991

Rhode Island, NY

  
  


She comes to Peggy’s house in the evening. 

 

She parks her nondescript tan rental car a half mile away after dark and walks to a wooded area that backs up to the Sousa property, climbs a tall tree, and patiently watches the house.

 

It is quiet in the little stretch of woods. The sky is clear, a scattering of stars and the half moon the only illumination as the undergrowth rustles in the chilly breeze. She settles her back against the rough trunk of a massive oak and sits astride a large branch, her feet dangling 20 feet from the ground. She has binoculars but seldom uses them, instead amusing herself for several hours listening to the various conversations inside—the whispers of concern for Peggy from the women as they put the casseroles away in the kitchen, the men trading stories about Daniel in the study. She follows her brother’s, Howard’s, and Tony’s voices as they circulate amongst the mourners and well wishers. 

 

At long last, the final visitors leave and the lights go off one by one on the lower level. Peggy's daughter and son-in-law bid her goodnight and climb the stairs to their room, their voices murmuring. Peggy’s daughter cries after the lights go out in their window, her husband comforting her. Eventually, they succumb to sleep and Darcy climbs down the tree and starts walking towards the house. She watches her friend’s silhouette as she pauses by her bedroom window to unlatch it before moving away to turn off the light.

 

Darcy had gone to the viewing the day before with Will, her hair covered by a nondescript dirty blond wig, wearing dark framed glasses and a belly pad under her frumpy navy blue dress. All of Peggy’s best lessons of disguise made her look like a slightly overweight woman in her mid fifties. 

 

It didn’t fool Peggy the slightest bit. Her dark gaze had sharpened when Will had introduced her under a false name and Darcy managed to slip a note to her old friend ( _I’ll come after the funeral, when everyone has gone. Leave your bedroom window unlocked_ ) under the guise of taking her hand to offer her condolences. The next morning she attended the funeral service in another nondescript dress, entering the church with Will and hiding out in the ladies room until the last minute, then sitting in the very back of the chapel while her brother sat beside Tony, Howard, and Maria up front.

 

It was quite the crowd. 

 

She recognized a few government officials, various movers and shakers (Howard prominent among them), and Peggy’s extended family. There were others though, dressed to blend in but noticeable to the trained eye (perhaps it was the military posture, perhaps the way they scanned the room) that she was sure came from SHIELD or maybe one of the other alphabet agencies. 

 

She kept an eye on them as she rummaged through her plain black leather bag to keep her hands busy, pulling out a lozenge then carefully unwrapping it. 

 

She should have been used to it— the subterfuge, but she hated it all the same. 

 

So often as it was in life, what she wanted and what she got were two very different things.

 

She sat through the funeral, got into Will’s car afterwards and they took part in a long procession to the cemetery to see Daniel Sousa lowered into the ground.

 

Peggy remained characteristically stoic throughout the entire service, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, the only sign of her distress was the whitening of her knuckles where they gripped her son's arm. 

 

Much later, Darcy shimmies through the window dressed in what could only be described as a burglars uniform and noiselessly steals across the floor to sit on the bed beside her friend. Peggy calmly gazes at her in the faint moonlight from the window, her eyes no doubt adjusted to the darkness but nowhere close to as sharp as hers.

 

Darcy takes her hand, absently noting how thin and soft her friend’s skin feels, and gently squeezes it. “I’m so sorry, Peggy,” she says.

 

It is only then that the facade crumbles and a shiver runs through Peggy’s body. “Oh Darcy—I just don’t know how, I don’t—” her voice, thinner with age and scratchy with suppressed tears, falters as she grips Darcy’s hand with both of hers.

 

Peggy is the strongest, most capable person she’s ever known. She knows without a doubt that she will soldier on.

 

Darcy supposes there are things she could say, useless platitudes that really don’t help at all, so she won’t.

 

The truth is, grief never ends. You don’t stop loving someone once they are gone so you always miss them. Slowly, the hole in your heart shrinks, filled in by new people, new activities. 

 

But it’s never completely gone.

 

So she just whispers, “I know,” and wraps her arms around Peggy and holds her tight as she cries.

 

[San Francisco neighborhoods close to USF residency hospitals](https://neuroresidency.ucsf.edu/sf/neighborhoods)

[The Castro district](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castro_District,_San_Francisco)

[history of HIV, AIDS](https://www.avert.org/professionals/history-hiv-aids/overview)

[Darcy’s martial arts instructor and school](https://thesixfifty.com/remembering-ralph-castro-the-peninsulas-trailblazing-martial-arts-master-46c580a89e3c)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is growing older :( Darcy has some more losses ahead of her, but some new people in her life as well.
> 
> Funny how Tony hasn’t noticed that Darcy has looked pretty much the same for the last 15 years. I guess everyone looks a lot older to you when you’re a kid and he mostly communicates with her via mail and phone calls.
> 
> Hope to get the next chapter out in 3 or 4 weeks. We shall see! Let me know what you think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little glimpses of Darcy’s life in San Francisco. Some bad news brings her back to New York. Tony asks some hard questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day, dear readers. Sorry for the long wait. Unfortunately, life gets in the way. This chapter was edited and re-edited until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Still not entirely happy but I’ll leave it in your hands!

Saturday September 15, 1991

San Francisco, CA

2am

 

Darcy puts on her headphones and presses play on her Walkman, immediately flinching at the barrage of sound that assaults her sensitive ears. It’s the newest mixtape from Tony and—as usual—it’s loud. The younger Stark grabbed onto 70’s and 80’s metal and hard rock music and never let go. She quickly turns the volume down and steps onto the treadmill she’d purchased a couple of months ago and placed near the living room windows. She sets it at 3 and walks for five minutes before turning it up and starting to jog. 

 

The last tape she’d sent Tony had included Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, with little Sinatra. It was a relaxing mix of old favorites. Something Tony needed, in her opinion.

 

The note accompanying the tape she was currently listening to had been in Tony’s familiar spiky handwriting—“ _Louis Armstrong and Sinatra? Who do you think I am? My Dad? Try this mix out. I like it when I’m working on a problem.”_

 

_Brat._

 

She knows for a fact Maria (who has always been an avid supporter of the arts) had gotten Tony a piano teacher when he was a small child. It was one area where she devoted significant energy to her son. Tony, basking in his mother’s attention, quickly outstripped his instructors ability. Unfortunately, his talent had never been more than a quaint hobby in his father’s eyes so he’d dropped it after he was sent to boarding school.

 

She purses her lips in irritation. _Howard_.

 

The point is, Tony knows music and can appreciate and identify all kinds. He’s just a snarky little shit about his preferences.

 

She supposes he likes music that matches the maelstrom in his head. Like the pounding hard rock currently blasting in her ears. 

 

It’s good for running, at least.

 

Usually, she’d rather run outside—she does so during the day, but it’s asking for trouble at night, and not just from criminal types either. The police would probably stop her if she was in the park to warn her that it wasn’t safe. She appreciates the sentiment, though there’s very little a single attacker could do to her unless they shot her someplace immediately fatal. 

 

Though, she’s not exactly sure what would be immediately fatal short of decapitation. 

 

She’d rather not find out.

 

The fact remains, in most situations she could disarm an attacker before something like that happened, but she really, _really_ doesn’t want a situation where her mutation may be revealed. She’d like to keep her current identity for as long as possible.

 

In recent years, anti-mutant sentiments have gotten louder and more politicized. She’d even seen a much older, barely recognizable Charles Xavier on the news. 

 

He looked so different—he was bald and in a wheelchair. It didn’t seem like it had been _that_ long since she’d seen him.

 

He was speaking to a Congressional panel as part of his effort to promote peaceful coexistence between mutants and the rest of humanity. He spoke of his school in Westchester and helping mutants to control and understand their powers. 

 

She understands Xavier's point of view, it’s a lovely dream. But from what she’s experienced, it isn’t regular people who are the biggest threat to mutants, it’s governments types trying to exploit and weaponize mutants in the name of national security that are. 

 

She doesn’t think people in power will ever stop their efforts to control or destroy anything they perceive as a threat. She doesn’t trust her own government either. The only reason she continued doing anything with SHIELD after the war was because Peggy was her contact point and she trusted her friend implicitly. They had been fighting threats to their country and protecting innocent people from militant groups similar to Hydra.

 

It made sense.

 

However, Vietnam made things more murky in her mind. Gone were the clear battle lines of World War 2. The lines were blurry at best in the jungle. Most of the wounded boys she’d treated had no idea why they were there and only wanted to go home. 

 

She watches the news—contemplates the long tension of the Cold War, the troubling information about the current war in the Gulf. It seems like the United States is _always_ at war and it feels like they’re fighting to stay in control more than anything else.

 

Anyway, she doesn’t sleep much. She never has really, but these days she lays awake worrying about her patients quite a bit or feeling just generally lonely—she hasn’t had a lover in years. Intellectually, she’s always stimulated from her work and hobbies, but having the hormones of a 25 year old leaves her frustrated in other ways.

 

There’s a sex shop called Good Vibrations over on Mission Street she’s been thinking of checking out. She’s more than a little curious about what’s available these days (she’s listened to Doctor Ruth!) and she figures she might as well have fun with herself if she can’t with someone else.

 

Some nights, she runs more than 10 miles from sheer restless energy. Fortunately, the lovely couple who lives in the apartment beneath hers has assured her that they can’t hear the treadmill, even though it seems obnoxiously loud to her.

 

She runs in the dark, the curtains pulled back to show her the view of the sidewalk and the faces of the buildings across the street. The street lights provide plenty of illumination, she can clearly see the late night returns of some of her neighbors from their evening out. Most of the people in the neighborhood are younger, quite a few graduate students from UCSF and young professionals. 

 

Early mornings like this one, she occasionally sees boisterous young men and women tumbling out of cabs and making their way up the stairs of their buildings after a night of bar hopping. Sometimes there are couples wrapped up in each other, pausing to kiss in doorways as they fumble for their keys.

 

Tonight, it’s rather quiet. 

 

She increases the treadmill speed to 8 and watches a man across the street reading in his bed. He’d forgotten to shut his blinds and is clearly visible in the pool of light cast by his bedside lamp as he leans against his headboard in a tee shirt and pajama pants. He’s handsome, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair and an interesting angular face, his cheekbones accented by a pair of wire rimmed glasses.

 

After about 20 minutes he takes his glasses off and rubs tiredly at his eyes, lays his book on the bedside table and turns to shut off the light. 

 

Her eyes trace across his window looking for further signs of movement but there are none.

 

A familiar black and white cat slinks along the front of the building before slipping into the darkness of the alley. She frowns, thinking she’ll put food out again tomorrow, maybe she can try to lure the cat closer to her.

 

She could maybe have a pet, even with her crazy schedule.

 

“Back in Black” ends and a new song that she keeps hearing on the radio starts—“Smells like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. It’s a slight deviation from Tony’s preferred bands. 

 

Next time she goes to the record store she’ll look for the album and give it a listen. Music is so much angrier than it used to be. Much more honest and raw than anything she grew up with. It has taken time for her to appreciate it.

 

A half hour later she steps off the treadmill, wipes her sweaty face and neck with the towel she’d slung over the handrail and heads towards the bathroom for a shower. 

 

She’ll need to eat something before she goes to bed, but she’ll be able to sleep now.

 

()()()()()()

 

November 28, 1991

Thanksgiving

San Francisco, CA

Darcy’s apartment

2pm

 

By some stroke of luck she has the entirety of Thanksgiving off, so she cooks far more than she probably should have given the fact she has to schlep it over to Robbie’s for her second Thanksgiving with her patients and their friends who have become _her_ friends.

 

Her patients are living longer, the current cocktail of drugs slows the advance of HIV into full blown AIDS somewhat.  But still, there is no cure in sight. 

 

Several weeks ago NBA point guard for the Lakers Magic Johnson had announced his HIV positive status, which had effectively ended his career. In addition, four days ago, Freddie Mercury had died just one day after announcing his diagnosis. 

 

Sometimes, the battle against the disease is just so emotionally draining. 

 

Sometimes, she has bad days where she feels unbearably sad and thinks about slipping out of her current identity and running away to some sunny locale to live off her significant fortune.

 

But, she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help when she could.

 

She slides the sweet potato casserole into the oven on the bottom rack, beneath the baked beans already bubbling on the top one and closes the oven, pausing to set a second timer.

 

She snatches up a cookie from the cooling rack on the counter and grabs her cup of tea, crossing the room to flop on the purple couch. She gazes out the window at the overcast sky, her eyes following the path of raindrops as they slide down the glass.

 

After she finishes off the cookie and drains half her tea, she checks the time on her watch and reaches over the plush arm of the sofa to pull the phone on the end table closer and dials Will’s number in New York. He picks up in two rings, slightly out of breath.

 

“Hello?” He says, laughing. She recognizes Jake and the higher tones of several others in the background. After Jake’s younger sister Helen got divorced a couple years ago, she and her two children started spending Thanksgiving with Will and Jake in addition to the motley crew of strays they invite each year.

 

She smiles at the sound and says, “Happy Thanksgiving, darling.”

 

“Dee!” He cries, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

 

They settle into a chat about what he and Jake are cooking for dinner (Will had taken up cooking upon his retirement, even going so far as taking some Cordon Bleu classes as a “couples activity” with Jake) and discuss their plans to meet up in Malibu for Christmas. She’s taking two weeks off and Will and Jake are planning to stay in California from the 20th of December til mid January.

 

“Frankly, I’m looking forward to getting out of New York for Christmas. The cold isn’t good for my old bones and I miss you, sis,” he says softly.

 

At 73, Will is still remarkably fit. He’s always taken good care of himself, never became a regular smoker and had cut back his drinking a great deal when Tony had gotten sick and never returned to it. Having a lover fifteen years his junior caused him some insecurity, and consequently, he’d started a regular exercise program when he was about 60. 

 

He’s healthy. 

 

She refuses to acknowledge he is old.

 

“I miss you too. Hey, can we get a real tree? I really miss the real trees we had in Iowa.”

 

He snorts, “What, you don’t love the fabulous vintage aluminum tree Tony bought in 1960? We’ll see. The real trees never last as long in the warmer climate, you know. Needles _everywhere._ ” 

 

“I know,” she sighs. The aluminum tree _is_ fabulous. The newer fake trees are lovely too. She just misses the scent of pine, it’s intrinsically tied to all of the Christmases of her childhood.

 

“So I’ll see you on the 21st?” She asks, relaxing into the sofa and closing her eyes to concentrate on his voice and the voices in the background.

 

“You bet,” Will says and she hears Jake exclaiming “Hey, lemme talk to Dee!”

 

There’s a brief scuffle on the other end and Will says wryly, “I’ll talk to you soon—love you.”

 

“Love you, too.”

 

Jake’s raspy voice comes on the line. “Hiya sweetheart—what’s new?”

 

She smiles, pulling a soft gray knitted throw off of the back of the sofa and wrapping it around her shoulders. She slouches under it’s comforting warmth and says, “Not a whole lot since the last time we spoke. How’s that one case you’re working on, the one with the guy who was fired for being a mutant?”

 

“Oh well, I can tell you a little,” he says, and she grabs her tea to take a sip, listening to the familiar cadence of his voice and Will’s voice more distantly until it’s time to say goodbye.

 

()()()()()()

 

December 17, 1991

San Francisco General Hospital

1am

 

Darcy is leaning on the counter at the nurses station, finishing up her chart for the patient she’d been called in to see. He’s one of hers, she’s seen him regularly at the clinic for the past year and despite all possible precautions he has ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.

 

Fortunately for him, his CD-4 test indicated his T cell levels are still high enough to fight it, given proper care.

 

Her pager buzzes at her hip and she ignores it in favor of finishing up her paperwork and giving the nurses some final instructions before heading down to the locker room to change and head home.

 

She glances at it when she pulls it off her waistband to shimmy out of her scrub pants and frowns in concern when she recognizes Will’s number.

 

_Shit._

 

A knot of worry coalesces in her stomach as she hurriedly finishes changing and heads out of the locker room to her small office on the second floor to call him back.

 

She leans back in her squeaky desk chair just outside of the pool of light created by her desk lamp, foregoing the needlessly bright fluorescent ceiling lights as she dials Will’s number. 

 

He answers after two rings, his voice tight and urgent enough that she sits up straight in her seat.

 

“It’s me. Are you okay? Is Jake?” She says.

 

“Darcy—“ he pauses, his voice turning hoarse. That and the fact that he’s calling her something other than Dee alerts her to the significance of whatever information he has to impart. “It’s Howard and Maria—there’s been an accident and—“ he clears his throat, gathering himself and she absently notes the creak of the receiver under her fingers and loosens her grip. 

 

“They’re gone,” he says softly. 

 

She inhales sharply and closes her eyes, collapsing against the back of her chair. 

 

She hasn’t been close to Howard in years, but he’d never lost her trust. Tears fill her eyes as memories from all of the years she’s known him unspool in her mind's eye. He had accepted her just the way she was. He’d helped her in some of the hardest moments of her life. 

 

Time and losses cut away at a person—Howard had done some questionable things, but he was still her friend.

 

“How?” She says quietly.

 

He lets out a ragged breath and says, “Car accident. Howard mentioned recently that he had to take a business trip to D.C. before Christmas. They must have decided to drive down from their place on Long Island. I dunno.” 

 

“Where’s Tony?”

 

_Poor Tony._

 

She doesn’t know how he is going to handle this. It will be crushing—he loves his parents, distant as they are to him. Not only would he have to deal with their loss but also with the weight of being the only surviving Stark.

 

“I don’t know,” Will says heavily, “he doesn’t know yet. I know he’s in town. Howard had me listed as his emergency contact after uh—after Maria. The police tracked me down first. I left messages at the mansion and at his private number in the R & D labs but no luck. He sometimes works late on personal projects there—“ he sighs, “he’s gotten kind of wild the last year or so since he finished up his second PhD. Lots of parties, lots of women. Press likes to play up the “chip off the old block” angle.”

 

“I’ve noticed,” she says.

 

“He’s just frustrated. He has a lot of interesting ideas—you know he built a robot assistant? Named him Dum-E because it’s a little glitchy—anyway, Howard wants him to stop fooling around with robots and focus on the military contracts—“ his voice falters and he chokes out, “I can’t believe it—I can’t believe he’s gone. Darce, Howard’s _gone.”_

 

“I can’t believe it either,” she says quietly, “Did you call Peggy?”

 

“Yeah—she already knew. Those SHIELD connections, I guess. They’ve got their finger in every pie, believe me.”

 

_Oh yes, they do._

 

“I better get off the phone in case Tony calls. I’m gonna try calling the mansion again. God, times like this I really miss Jarvis. The new staff over there doesn’t hold a candle to the way he and Ana ran things.”

 

Jarvis and Ana retired soon after Tony went off to college and moved into a lovely bungalow Howard had purchased for them not far from the beach in Malibu. Jarvis passed away two years ago, Ana not too long after.

 

They’d been present for nearly every family event until their deaths. 

 

“I know. I’ll let you go. I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I can get a flight out—let you know my arrival,” she says.

 

“Alright,” he says wearily, “Alright. Love you, sis.”

 

“Love you, too.”

 

()()()()()()

 

December 20, 1991

New York City

10pm

 

She couldn’t go to the viewing, the church service, or the burial.

 

The press was in a frenzy over Howard and Maria's deaths. Continuous quotes from “sources close to the family” chimed in on the state of both Tony Stark and the future of Stark Industries. She wondered who these “friends” were, since she knew both Will and Peggy had avoided commenting.

 

Obadiah Stane seemed to be running point from Stark Industries, offering solemn updates to the press on several occasions in the last few days.

 

Something about him rubbed her wrong, but maybe it’s because Will never warmed to the man. 

 

A phalanx of reporters were positioned at the funeral home, the church, and at the cemetery. In addition, there was Tony’s private security and whatever secret group of SHIELD operatives were assigned to it on top of the more public faces like Peggy and a couple of political liaisons from Washington.

 

Too many people she once knew long ago, too many cameras, too many government agents of one kind or another. 

 

She’d sent a huge bouquet of flowers to the funeral home where the viewing had taken place (closed casket, of course) and paced back and forth restlessly at Will’s apartment all day, the news on, often wishing Marmalade was still alive to keep her company. 

 

She’d spoken to Tony briefly before she’d left California to come to New York to express her condolences. He’d been short with her, no doubt wondering why she wasn’t at the viewing, why she wouldn’t be at the funeral. 

 

It kills her.

 

Howard was her friend and she had to wait for the crowds to disperse in order to privately pay her respects long after the burial, creeping into the cemetery just after dark to locate he and Maria’s gravesites, like some kind of vandal.

 

Heavy on her heart is the fact she’d promised Howard she’d look out for Tony. 

 

Her brother had called an hour ago to tell her the coast was clear, everyone had left, including the press. He’d turned off the alarm to Edwin and Ana’s old quarters.

 

She changed into nondescript dark clothing with comfortable shoes and walked the six blocks to Stark mansion, where Will, Jake, and Peggy are spending the night so Tony won’t be alone in the large house.

 

She’s currently positioned across the street at the rear of the house, where she remembered there was an alternate driveway to the gatehouse. After ascertaining there is no press lingering, she scales the wall and drops over the other side to jog up the driveway past the gatehouse to the outside door to the Jarvis’s old quarters, knocking lightly on the door that leads into the kitchen. 

 

After a minute, Jake opens the door.

 

“This is very cloak and dagger,” he murmurs as he embraces her.

 

“Yeah—welcome to my life. Not as exciting as you’d imagine,” she mutters as she slips from his arms and walks through the door. It looks a lot different inside, new flooring and appliances, much higher end than when Jarvis and Ana had lived there.

 

She glances up at Jake and notes the deep circles under his vibrant blue eyes.

 

“You doing okay?” She asks, concerned.

 

Jake runs a hand through his steel gray hair, “Ah—it’s been a rough few days. Will is just—well, you know. He loved Howard, even though I always thought he was kind of a jackass.”

 

Darcy snorts, “He _was._ But he was _our_ jackass and he was a true and loyal friend.”

 

Jake shrugs, obviously not entirely convinced.

 

“Where’s Will?”

 

“Oh, yeah. He went over to the big kitchen to have some tea with Peggy. Want me to go over with ya?”

 

“Nah, why don’t you relax? I know the way.”

 

She hadn’t been in the house since the early 60’s. After they’d moved most of SI to California, Howard had managed the bulk of his business from there with only occasional business trips and charity events in New York.

 

Anyway, the layout of the house is mostly the same, although Maria spent a lot of time and money having it renovated after she married Howard. She’d furnished, carpeted, and painted the house in a way that somehow bridged it’s classic lines to modern times without looking jarring.

 

She’d also avoided some of the questionable trends from the 60’s and 70’s, thank god.

 

It was warmer and more lived in than it had ever been when Darcy lived there, with beautiful yet comfy furnishings, dark hardwood floors littered with intricately woven persian rugs, and the walls painted or papered in neutral shades of cream, tan, or gold. 

 

She wonders what had been done with the apartment she, Will, and Tony shared on the second floor.

 

She silently traverses the house towards the familiar murmuring voices in the kitchen and enters it just as Peggy says, “What’s keeping Darcy?”

 

_Darcy._

 

Peggy is the only person who calls her that anymore, and only in private. Will has firmly stuck to calling her Dee, claiming it’s for the best in his old age to maintain that consistency lest he inadvertently slips up in front of someone.

 

Peggy has always had the mental organization of a spy, handily keeping track of various cover stories with ease, so she doesn’t share her brother’s worries. 

 

“I’m here,” she says, entering the kitchen and bending over the back of Peggy’s chair to kiss her on the cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 before stepping back and shrugging out of her backpack and dropping into the chair beside her.

 

Peggy’s dark eyes focus on her and she raises one impeccably groomed eyebrow in inquiry, “Tea?”

 

“Sure, you remember how I like it?”

 

Peggy sniffs, “Of course,” and gracefully fills one of the empty cups waiting on the table, adding cream and sugar before sliding it her way. Though her hair has silvered and her skin is marked by fine lines like the wrinkles in crumpled silk, her friends' hands remain steady. 

 

She is still a force to be reckoned with.

 

Darcy lifts the cup, inhaling the fragrant steam before taking a sip, relishing the feeling of warm porcelain under her chilled fingers as the tea heats her throat in turn. The walk over from Will’s place and 15 minutes of surveillance before climbing the back wall had been cold work, what with it being a frosty 20 degrees and windy outside.

 

She glances at her brother, slouching wearily in his seat and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He looks every year of his age tonight, his dear face worn with worry and grief.

 

“Where’s Tony?” She asks.

 

“Down in the lab last I checked, blasting that damned noise he calls music and avoiding any attempts I’ve made to console him,” Will mutters.

 

Peggy says thoughtfully, “Perhaps consolation is off the table right now. Tony is—angry.”

 

Darcy listens carefully, hearing silence from the labs below and movement two floors above.

 

“He’s also not down in the lab anymore,” she tilts her head and takes another sip of tea, “he’s up on the third floor,” she says.

 

“Ah, yes,” Peggy says, “he moved his rooms up there the summer before he went off to university. I imagine he was seeking to be as far away from Howard as he could and still be in the same house,” her lips pressing into a straight line in irritation.

 

Will sighs heavily and leans his elbow on the table, resting his head on his hand.

 

“You’re probably right. He and Howard were at each other's throats that summer,” Will recalls, his lips turning down at the memory, “I just wish—“ his voice falters and he inhales deeply before blowing out his breath and continuing, “I guess wishes won’t make any difference _now_.”

 

Darcy reaches out and clasps her brother’s hand in hers and squeezes gently. 

 

They all know how Howard was with Tony. So focused on how _he_ would do things that he was blind to Tony’s particular genius and overly critical of his efforts. 

 

“You’re right,” Peggy says crisply, standing to gather her cup and saucer to place them in the sink. She leans her hands on the edge of the counter, her head bowed. She continues quietly, “we cannot undo the damage Howard did to his family while he was alive. He was my friend and I loved him—flaws and all. We all have our blind spots and Howard was simply incapable of seeing the pressure he put on his son, a fact that became more obvious as time went on. As for his indiscretions, well—Maria was an adult and she made her own choices.”

 

Darcy thinks of all of the times she wanted to say something to Howard about the way he handled Tony but didn’t, out of respect for their friendship and out of a deep discomfort with meddling in his family life.

 

After all, who was she to tell Howard how to parent his son? It’s not as if she had children of her own. 

 

She didn’t even have a _cat._

 

“We can help Tony now though,” Will says softly.

 

“Yes,” Peggy replies, pushing off the counter to head to the door, “but not tonight. I think he needs the comfort of someone he doesn’t perceive as a parental type. Lieutenant Rhodes cannot be here for several more days as he is stationed in Kuwait—Darcy, I think it’s your turn. I’m going to bed. Will, you look as exhausted as I feel. You should turn in. Goodnight.” With that, she turns on her heel and heads off to her room.

 

Darcy looks at her brother and shrugs. 

 

She walks over to the table and takes their empty cups and the teapot over to the sink before saying, “She’s right—you look like crap. I’ll go looking for Tony.”

 

He grumbles, “Gee, thanks,” but nods in agreement.

 

She walks over and wraps her arms around him, pressing her nose against his soft green sweater and inhaling the familiar scent of him. He hugs her and murmurs, “Jake and I are in Edwin and Ana’s old rooms, Peggy is in a guest room on the second floor. There’s an extra room over by us if you wanna stay the night. I haven’t stayed here in so many years I guess I forgot how weirdly empty this place can feel.”

 

She leans back and looks up at his face, “It’s a lot of space for just a few people.”

 

“Yeah—imagine how Tony feels. He was here with just the hired help a lot. Guess that’s why he ended up over at my place so often.” He pauses and rubs his hand across his face, gathering his thoughts, “there's a housekeeper but she doesn’t live in. She’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She pauses to switch off the light as they leave the kitchen and pass through the dining room into the living room beyond it. They say goodnight and she watches her brother head towards the doorway that leads to the Jarvis’s old quarters.

 

She pauses to listen carefully for a minute, hearing the distant sound of music before heading to the staircase to begin her search for Tony. 

 

()()()()()()

 

It turns out Tony is _not_ on the third floor.

 

He is above it. More specifically—in the attic.

 

She’d followed the sound of piano music to the third floor and then to an open door which lead to a darkened stairway.

 

She climbs to the top and looks around the space. The music echoes off the high ceiling of the attic and she recognizes the piece, Fantasia in D minor by Mozart—expertly played though the tone of the piano is somewhat flat.

 

She glances around the cavernous attic, stuffed full of what appears to be furniture shrouded by sheets, boxes and boxes of books, racks of hanging garment bags and other odds and ends. Tall windows line the walls, a few loose panes whistling from the snow laden wind swirling outside. There are four chandeliers that light the space, hung along the central beam of the roof, incongruously grand for an attic, and many bulbs have burnt out causing pools of shadow in some portions of the room. 

 

She weaves through the ghostly furniture and boxes towards the source of music at the far end of the attic. She steps out of the shadow of a large armoire and finds Tony.

 

He is seated with his back to her at a grand piano, it’s surface glossy and black in the light from the chandelier overhead. The sheet that must have covered it and the bench is in a crumpled heap on the ground and a half empty crystal decanter of whiskey rests on the bench beside him.

 

Tony is dressed in a dark suit, funeral finery no doubt, and his hair sticks up wildly from his head, as if he’d run his hands through it multiple times.

 

It’s colder up here, the attic is unheated so it’s maybe 50 degrees at best. She leans against the front of the heavy armoire and listens to Tony play—wondering how long it’s been since he last played as he’s obviously very skilled.

 

The song comes to an end and Darcy raises her hands to clap in the silence that follows.

 

Tony startles slightly and turns to look at her, his brow furrowing then relaxing slightly.

 

“Hey,” he says weakly, rubbing tiredly at his eyes before reaching up to pull off his already loosened tie and drop it on the floor. 

 

“Hey,” she says walking over and lifting the decanter from the bench beside him to take a swig. 

 

He raises an eyebrow at her and she smirks in return, handing him the decanter as she slips off her backpack and takes a seat beside him.

 

She presses gently on the piano keys, playing a short scale from memory, then a few notes from what she could see of Tony’s right hand as he played.

 

“You play beautifully,” she says quietly, nudging Tony’s shoulder with hers.

 

Tony shrugs, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. After a moment he picks at the keys and says, “It was my mother’s favorite song—from back when I played.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, it was just a silly hobby,” he says pecking at the keys a bit harder, the sound sharp and angry in the silent room.

 

She covers his hand with hers, silencing his restless play.

 

She turns to look at him and he stares forward stubbornly for several minutes before his dark eyes meet hers.

 

The whistling of the wind through the gaps in the windows is the only sound.

 

“Not silly,” she says.

 

He shakes off her hand and bows his head, fiddling aimlessly with a button on his shirt. 

 

“Yeah well—who’s to say? Who’s to say anymore?” he rasps.

 

“I do. But, either way, you can decide for yourself.”

 

“You do, huh?” He levers himself up and she turns on the bench to follow his restless pacing. “ _You do,_ ” He takes another swig from the bottle and grimaces slightly at the burn. “So where were you all day today then?”

 

She sighs, “I told you I couldn’t make it in time—“

 

He interrupted, “Bullshit. I heard Will and Jake talking about you coming in last night. I’m not a _child._ If you didn’t care about any of this you could just say so.”

 

“Tony—“

 

“No! I don’t have a lot of family—I thought you were a part of it, though. Why didn’t you come? I mean, Rhodey is in fucking Kuwait and he called in a few favors and he’ll be here in two days. What’s your excuse?” He cries, throwing the decanter against the wall where it shatters, the smell of whiskey permeating the air.

 

She flinches but maintains eye contact with Tony and says softly, “It’s complicated.”

 

“Complicated? Let’s talk about that. I have a meeting in a couple days with my Dad’s lawyer, we’re reading the will. Imagine my surprise when he gave me a list of those who would be attending,” he fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a sheet of expensive looking stationary folded into thirds and tosses it at her.

 

It falls on the floor in front of her and she bends to pick it up.

 

There in black and white is the list:

 

**Anthony Edward Stark**

**William Thomas Garland**

**Margaret Elizabeth Carter**

**Diedre Jane Buchanan**

 

It’s a very short list.

 

“I didn’t even know you knew my dad,” Tony says.

 

She refolds the piece of paper. “We’ve met.”

 

_A few thousand times._

 

“I understand Will and Peggy. They’ve been friends with Dad forever. But you’re Will’s distant cousin. You’re _my_ friend. I know for a fact my mother didn’t know you. So why did my father include you in the will? Who are you to _him?”_

 

_Oh, Howard._

 

Why did he include her in his will? He would have had to alter it every time she assumed a new identity. Poor Maria would have thought she was the offspring of one of Howard’s affairs, had she survived. Or worse, his mistress.

 

Now Tony probably does, too.

 

She ponders the best way to explain her life to Tony. He is a scientist, a creature of facts and possesses a naturally distrustful nature thanks to his upbringing and the pressures of being the son of one of the richest men in the world.

 

Many people have attempted to gain his affections over the years to get close to Howard or to his money. Many have lied to get close to him.

 

She’s waited for the right moment, agonizing over whether to tell him about her mutation and what it means for her and the few people she loves. 

 

It seems her decision has been made for her.

 

She rises from the bench and grabs her backpack, heading towards what looks like a sofa pushed against the wall. She flips the sheet off of it and beckons Tony closer. 

 

“Come, sit with me—it’s a long story.”

 

 

[history of AIDS](https://www.avert.org/professionals/history-hiv-aids/overview)

[Magic Johnson announces his HIV status](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/magic-johnson-announces-he-is-hiv-positive)

[Good Vibrations is a real place!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_Vibrations_\(sex_shop\))

[what is a CD4 test?](https://medlineplus.gov/lab-tests/cd4-lymphocyte-count/)

[What’s an aluminum Christmas tree?](https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/60849/short-life-and-awesome-resurgence-aluminum-christmas-tree)

[Fantasia in D minor by Mozart](https://youtu.be/nNeXg_JQnpA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! How will Tony react? We shall see.
> 
> Thank you for all of the lovely comments on the last chapter! I appreciate it so much and they really helped spur me on in my writing when I felt like giving up.


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